by Kingsley Ash
She twists her arm. She can’t break free. The smell of her lemon-drop lips is enough to trigger me. So I let her go. Never want to. I want her to keep looking at me so bad. Want my dead heart back.
She scuttles like a scared little mouse to the far corner of the cupboard.
‘What’re you doing in here, Amy?’ I sit back down on the bucket.
‘I come here sometimes to think . . . when I’m sad.’
‘Why won’t you admit you come in here because it reminds you of us?’
‘That’s not why.’
She looks like someone who’s just woken from a dream, and dropped straight into a nightmare.
I am her nightmare, a thousand dreams undone.
There was a time, I guess, when Amy would've given herself to me. But that was back when she didn't know what I am.
If I were a decent guy, I would stay clear. If I were a decent guy, I would've done a lot of things differently.
But I'm not.
I point to the book in her hand. ‘What’re you reading?’
Amy allows herself to look at me. Head shaved on the sides, clad in black like some malevolent villain. I’m a shadow, shepherding darkness to every room she walks into.
‘I like poetry,’ she whispers.
She is like a poem. The complicated kind. The ones that take time to figure out. But when you do, it’s fucking magical.
‘I don’t know about poetry but I’ve got a couple of dirty limericks you’re welcome to.’
Amy sighs audibly.
I’m a thorn in her rose.
‘You wanted to be poet once. I remember. You still want that, Amy?’
She shrugs her shoulders.
Silence.
‘There used to be angels,’ she says, lifting her book up. The title reads Snow Angels. ‘The story is they were incredibly beautiful, with blue feathery wings and real gilded halos. But they’re all gone now. They’ve left us. They must have. Otherwise, how can they let such bad things happen?’
She closes her eyes. ‘It’s pathetic,’ she says, ‘how we can’t live with the things we can’t understand. How if we can’t explain something we’ll just deny it.’
Her short laughter is hollow. Her eyes are red, raw from tears.
She’s practically naked in her thin white dress. Naked and as pale white as the skin under her hair. Naked white and about two steps away. And extremely fuckable.
Just one reach away is the curve of her tiny waist going down along the outline of her sweet tight arse. Just that far is the shelf of her tits pushing up rose button nipples. Just my arm away is the warm hot space where her legs come together.
To keep myself in check, I think of staph infection. I picture the skin infection ringworm. Skin ulcers.
Silence rusts between us.
If I wait a few minutes, my heart rate might slow, and I’ll think logically. But fuck, my heart just pumps wilder.
Things tick in my head, the quiet too loud and ear-splitting in my head.
I stand up, slither close, and trap her against the wall with my arms. Like she’s a little lost lamb and I’m the big bad wolf.
Here are all those tight furry shadows where I’ve been dying to go.
I was right about her ears. Another hole she can’t close, hidden and beautiful. Framed in her soft sunshine brain hair.
Her eyes just pin on the other side of the broom cupboard.
I don’t fucking exist.
That deep spiking need for Amy, returns. The ache is there, making me want to hurt her, making me want to return her to hate.
Anything but not existing.
I look into her eyes. The pain in her irises shine brighter than the rest of her in the half darkness.
‘What made you so scared of the dark, Amy? I remember it the other way round. I was scared — not you.’
I wish you could burn your own memories. Decide which you remember and which are lost in chaos.
‘You know, every time you remember something, your mind changes it. Just a little. Your best and your worst memories . . . they’re your biggest lies.’
The way she looks now, sad and broken, her eyes are gone to whatever place inside the lost world of her own mind.
‘Elizabeth loved the stars,’ she murmurs. ‘Remember what she said to me? When night comes, when it gets dark, if I’m not there to hold your hand, it’s because I’m up there in the sky, shining bright as a star to fight off any monsters in your cupboard or under your bed.’
Feels like a gun pressed to the back of my head.
Pull the trigger.
End it all.
‘Yeah . . .’
My head feels like there’s a typhoon of noise and sharp glass spinning inside it. Cutting me up. Endless blood. No end to pain.
She says, ‘You know that thing, that goes bump in the night . . . ? That’s what you are to me. And now I have nobody to hold my hand or protect me.’
She’s gulping for air now. Her nostrils flare, and she’s fighting back tears. I can see the blood pulsing in her neck. The colour has drained from her rosy face. She looks undone.
My heart hurts enough to poison the pleasure of dominating her.
‘What got you hurt so bad?’ I say.
She looks down at her ballet shoes. She taps them on the floor. Pitter patter. Pitter Patter. Tears drop silently onto them.
‘You can blackmail me, you can threaten me, you can force me to fix my damage — but my hurt is nothing to do with you.’
‘I’m making it my damn business,’ I rasp.
I touch the tip of my finger to her chin, tilt her head up. A bolt of heat hits my finger. I suck in a breath. I lock my eyes on hers. Those long eyelashes flutter. Christ, she’s stunning in the light of pain.
She shoves against my shoulders. I don’t budge an inch. She’s so fucking beautiful, I want her to win.
I step to the side and grant her escape.
‘I’m not done with you yet,’ I tell her.
Amy runs out of the closet.
I call out to her, ‘I’ll meet you back here with some poetry then.’
I stand alone in the dim light, under the scrutiny of the broken cross.
Hell, I’m not about caring what’s wrong. Nobody is gonna trick me into feeling Christlike. Purify my soul.
I prove to the world I’m a monster, every single damn day I draw breath.
We live and we die and anything else is just delusion. What I am is a rotten-hearted bastard, and I can’t change, and I can’t stop, and that’s all I’ll ever be.
If all this is true, then why do I feel like I’m the lowest form of a goddamn human being to walk this godforsaken Earth?
What would a monster NOT do?
23
YOU
When I wake up in the morning, I feel like Dorothy. A tornado has swooped me up and thrown me into another world.
This very evening . . . I’m going out for drinks with Shepherd.
I get out of bed. It feels like my floor turns to water underneath my bare feet. It’s probably best if I stick to orange juice, tonight.
I check my room throughout the day. Each check, I have to cling on to the walls as I work my way through the routine.
It’s not good enough. I’ll check again in a moment.
I’m like a cat on hot bricks.
I know I need to summon up all my courage to survive this date. Yet again, I question if it’s a date. He never actually asked me out. It’s more of a do or die situation, I tell myself. This is his bizarre and unconventional therapy to put the pieces in my head back together again.
I start preparing for it early. Preparing to go out means checking everything. Checking again. Then once more because I only started it at one minute past the hour. Then again because it takes two minutes’ less time than it should have done.
I want to cry.
I go to my bedroom and unpeel. My dress sleeps on my bed, waiting for me. I don’t possess anything that looks young and wild, or does
n’t hide me in a pile of shapeless fabric.
In the end, I found a pink dress. It was a birthday gift Elizabeth made for me on my sixteenth birthday. It was too sentimental to give up. It’s made from taffeta, lace, and other materials I can’t figure out. It’s layered at the bottom like something from a fairy-tale. It looks hand sewn. The skirt is longer on one side than the other, and the waist of the dress orbits low around my hips. It’s short enough to be quite daring. I slip it on. My arms and shoulders are exposed so I put on a pale pink cashmere cardigan.
I look down at my feet. My white ballet shoes look precarious and stupid. I wonder if I will ever be brave enough to wear high heels.
I want Shepherd to like my dress. I can deny it plenty of times, but I want his attention. Because without it, I will vanish.
I get a text from Shepherd.
Where are you? Waiting in my car. You’ve got five mins, then I’m coming up, S
I take one last glance in the mirror. I look very strange, and very thin.
Not like me at all.
24
ME
In the car, Amy asks, ‘Is this dress okay?’
She looks too pretty for where we’re going. And fuck if I don’t wish Amy was an ugly sister of some kind. Hell, she’s pure as the fucking snow. A goddamn snowflake princess. Her natural beauty stands out like a sunflower in the company of weeds.
But I just say, ‘Yeah, it’s fine.’
My black Aston Martin smells like smokes and cherry air freshener. I crack open the windows to let in some air, but the air outside smells like overripe lilacs, which isn’t better.
We go all the way outside Greystone and into The Valley where it’s more crowded. It’s darker out here, too, somehow. The streets are packed. The air has a buzzing sound like the neon of broken club signs. I try to smell the fresh air far away, out of the city, but all I smell is the burning tar and soot of The Valley.
Outside The Wicked Witch, there is a clump of girls. The Coven is what I call them. Portia and her delinquent entourage. They’re smoking by this shiny white BMW, and stare as I pull in.
They have on tight mini-dresses, big lace-up boots and lots of dark eye makeup. I glance over at Amy, all in her pretty princess dress. She outshines every one of them in class.
I park and sit there for a second, staring out through the windshield into the night. It’s soulless and dark except for the lit-up signs around my warehouse.
I rake back my hair and look at her. ‘Okay. You ready, baby?’
‘Yes, think so. Are you sure I look okay?’
‘You look . . . ’
You look too fucking beautiful, Amylocks.
‘You look stellar.’
It’s getting chilly. I let her wear my leather jacket, after I remove the pack of cigarettes. I feel better her walking past the girls wearing it. Protection. The girls, specifically Portia, the head witch, are checking me out, definitely. I don’t want Amy to think they’re even close to being on my radar. I barely acknowledge them.
Portia says hi and I nod at her. She gives Amy this look like she wants to deck Amy. Weird part is, Amy looks like she kinda likes the idea that these girls are jealous of her. And I like the idea that Amy likes it.
I lean down and whisper to Amy, ‘How’re you doing?’
She looks up at me, blinks, and I feel the heat on her through my jacket. My skin fizzes with electricity.
We go inside. The place is packed. The air ventilation system inadequate. And heat permeates the warehouse. A film of condensation gathers on the ceiling and drips down the walls from the mass of bodies jammed into the nightclub.
Newbies don’t take to the heat. Don’t know how popular my club nights are on a Saturday night. My dark eyes gauge the crowd as I make our way through, pushing people away from Amy and avoiding contact with the sweaty bodies around us. Amy looks ready to die, but I keep an eye out for any sign of trouble. Nobody’s touching a single hair on her head.
Soon enough, we’re through to the VIP lounge. I get her a pomegranate and lime mock-tail from the bar. It has a rainbow umbrella dipped into it. It’s pretty like Amy. I say hi to Fab5 who’s managing the place tonight.
The club is playing techno music, and people are dancing around in the spinning coloured lights.
I light an electronic cigarette and say to Amy, ‘It sucks here tonight. We — I mean they don’t usually play this shit music.’
Don’t know why I dragged her to my club. It’s like I’m my own worst enemy. Like the sadist in me wants her to catch the lie.
Like I said, pretending I’m a psychologist is probably the sickest lie I’ve spun. But it’s the only fucking way I know how to get her to do what I want.
When I saw you, Amy, saw what you’ve become . . . I had to fix you to make up for what I’d done.
I watch her take off my jacket and her cardigan. And then her little bony elbows come out. I just want to drag my tongue over them.
Screw it, I’ll kiss her, see what happens. I reach, but she turns at the last minute. My hand lands clumsy and heavy on her shoulder. My stomach bites.
The fuck is happening to me tonight?
I’ve dipped my fingers too deep inside her cookie jar. Amy is like a sugar rush. That feeling you get when you’ve eaten too much sugar. You feel sick, but you crave it and crave it some more. You keeping eating, until it kills you.
I can feel the sweat trickling down my sides. My hair is slick with sweat. The butterflies in my stomach are flapping like mad. Don’t get why I’m nervous all of a sudden.
Amy drinks from her glass, and I don’t get how this girl doesn’t see how drop-dead gorgeous she is.
‘Why do you come if it isn’t interesting?’ she says.
I can’t outright tell her the truth, that I own this place. So I just lie, ‘What else is there to do?’ I don’t look at Amy when I say this.
Then they start to play some rock music. I want to jump onto the dance floor, feel the thud of bodies crash into me. I can feel the music shake my body, like it’s the end of the world, and I don’t give a fuck.
Or is it something else shaking me?
‘Happy to be out?’ I say.
I don’t wanna come back down to Earth. I wanna stay up in the sky with my girl.
‘Happy? I’m only here because you forced me to come.’
Amy suddenly goes cold, her gaze fixed on the disco light on the other side. I know the signs. I can read her now like a book. It’d be easier if it didn’t twist something in my guts, but the spiking heat of pleasure when I’m close to her turns.
I dragged her here, where it’s darker and hotter, like the Devil's back office, and still I’m unsatisfied. I purposefully sat us under the bright neon-blue light. So I can watch her not watching me. To know she could see me and she chooses not to.
We’re twisted in a toxic spiral, Amy. I’m just a fucking narcotic, a fucking painkiller.
I fuck her in the dark so I can’t see her eyes. When I pleasure her, I know she’s turned on. But after the sweet ride is over, she’s cold like frostbite. Numb. Oblivious to my fucking existence.
She won’t look at me in the light. Fuck if being an arsehole is my sick way of getting something out of her. To feel like she feels some thing for me.
‘What do you see when you stare at nothing like that?’ I say, roaming my eyes over her body. I love the shape of her tits, am always conflicted between the urge to worship them and the urge to devour them.
‘Loss. Ugliness. The world’s gone dark, everything alive has gone to dust.’
‘Are you getting philosophical on me, Amy?
‘No.’
Shit load of silence after that.
‘One-word Amy, is it, tonight? Is that all you’re gonna say to me?’
I could try and ignore Amy but watching her sit there, in that pink dress, a flood of suppressed feelings surges under my skin and even though my body, my eyes and my mouth give jack shit away, my emotions are like an out of control r
ollercoaster.
I feel the caustic anger that only Amy can provoke in me. Amy has all the ammo. Starting to think she knows that, and knows how to use it. Then there’s the desire, that need, that stupid want that comes with having loved someone in every imaginable way and seeing them in the flesh for the first time in five fucking years — too damn long.
And Amy’s half naked in a fuck-me-now dress. Glowing with sweat. In my club. In my domain. And the slickness of the walls and the dense smell of bodies and testosterone and raw sexual energy and everything about the situation brings that feeling of want. But it isn’t the place or the time for those feelings. Amy can’t know. No one can know how royally screwed she has made me.
‘I want to go home,’ Amy says.
‘I’m not debating on this — you’re staying. It’s the only way you’re not gonna allow this wanker of an OCD rule you. You know the alternative.’
‘Do you know I'm not even afraid of you anymore? You make Hitler look like a fluffy bunny and I'm not scared of you.’
‘You say the sweetest things.’
‘It would be like fearing a virus with a hundred-percent fatality rate. The virus does what it does, and you can't reason with it. It just kills because that's what it does.’
‘You used to admire what I was.’
‘Used to.’
Used to love me . . .
I don’t get a chance to rise to the bait. Henry Gold strolls over.
How the fuck did he get into my club? This meathead prick is banned.
I scrub the back of my neck, dampen down my anger. I can’t use my power to kick him out of the warehouse. Not in front of Amy. I’ve got to be damn cautious here. Behave like I’m undercover. One slip up and BOOM! All that hard work down the drain. My lie has come back to kick me in the fucking nut sack.
A new rat tattoo sneaks up Meathead’s forearm. He’s chosen the perfect ink to represent himself, I’ll give him that.
His grey eyes are the coldest film of ice. ‘Is that you, Amy Earhart? Oh, shit, it is you! What in the hell you doing here with this loser? Does your daddy know you’re in The Valley? Is the Mayor of Greystone finally letting you play with the big boys?’