To Watch You Bleed

by Jordon Greene

  Only another few hours.

  Mara stared up into the white speckled ceiling. It was dark. The lights were off and the faint glow of the moon was largely held at bay by heavy white curtains. The tiny glowing dots on her ceiling had faded noticeably over the past hour, her indoor illusion of the night sky slowly fading into the clutches of pitch black night.

  Music flooded through her ears, a constant rhythmic beat of R&B and indie label hip-hop. Halsey’s New Americana had been playing when Lenore had knocked at the door. Mara heard her just above the chords echoing in her ears but held back any extra response other than a quick No. She huffed at the ceiling. Clad behind the iron bars of her parents’ imprisonment was not how she dreamt spending her last Halloween as a senior, but nonetheless here she was.

  She raised her iPod and checked the time. 7:18PM.

  Where they hell are you, Nathan? she nettled.

  The sooner he arrived, the sooner her prison sentence could finally be commuted for at least a few hours, of course without Mom or Dad’s knowledge. That was the genius of a prison break after all, though hers did not require actually leaving the house.

  Come on!

  Mara sat up in her bed and threw her feet over the edge before tapping a dull light to life on her nightstand. The tiny shimmer of the glowing specks on the ceiling suddenly became insignificant as the grey, almost blue walls came to life with photographs and a stenciled white silhouetted scene of flowers rising from the floor nearly to eye level. Her light nightgown hung loose around her small waist where it stopped inches above her knees in laced frills. She tugged the lime green band at the back of her head loose and let her gentle curls unfurl and drop around shoulders.

  Cinching the gown’s straps tighter, Mara walked over to her vanity and took a seat on the cushy tall-backed wooden chair. She lifted a large-bristled comb from the multiple options on the table and combed her hair, inspecting the color and texture of her sun-kissed skin and double-checking her makeup.

  Clack!

  Her head snapped to the left, eyes glued to where the noise had come from. The window closest to her. She loosened up.

  Nathan?

  Mara rose from her seat and started to walk toward the window. The familiar shadow of a waving tree limb swayed ghost-like behind her curtains. She parted the curtain, letting the gentle moonlight shine into the room, lighting up her face. Beyond was the same bare red maple tree limb that had haunted her bedroom since they had moved in. Beyond it sat the lake shimmering in sparkles of white and black just beyond the family’s tiny dock bordered by more trees.

  She peeked through the glass, angling her head to get a better look. Suddenly something hideous jumped in front of the glass, slapping into the surface with a loud clinking. It was Predator.

  Mara stumbled back, barely holding in a screech that would have seemed a beacon for help to her mother downstairs. She took a step toward the glass, an indignant frown slashed across her lips. She heaved the window open as the mask lifted to reveal a wide jaw and toothy grin followed by a set of chestnut brown starbursts gazing back at her in obvious amusement.

  “Nathan!” She whispered yet yelled at Nathan at the same time. She reached out and helped him cross the window’s threshold, “What do you not understand about sneaking into my bedroom? About causing me to scream doesn’t qualify as sneaking, idiot.”

  “But you didn’t,” Nathan retorted, his boyish demeanor only dinted in the most minor bit by her complaining.

  “That’s not the point. If my mom realizes you’re up here, they’ll never let me see you again,” she whispered.

  “Sure they will,” he said. “They can’t keep you locked away forever.”

  Mara couldn’t help but grin at him. She leaned forward onto his chest and nuzzled her cheek against his as he bent down slightly to her level. At five foot ten, he was short for his role on the high school football team, first string running back, but that didn’t make it any easier for Mara. She let her arms wrap around him as his hands reached down, latched on to her buttocks and lifted her the remaining few inches to put them eye-to-eye.

  “That’s better,” Nathan grinned.

  She smiled, looking straight into his eyes, enjoying the feeling of his palms tight on her butt, her breasts against his hard chest and his balmy breath on her cheek. Finally, his lips met hers. Mara closed her eyes as his tongue worked its way between her open lips, and she gasped lightly. Instinctively she slid her hand down his back and then under his t-shirt. Slowly her palm explored the soft contours of his waist before she found her hand sliding back up the slopes of his back.

  “Much better,” his eyes held a longing, a deep need as he opened them just long enough to take a quick look before kissing her again. Still carrying her, Nathan walked a few steps back and gently laid Mara down on the bed.

  CHAPTER 7

  The nippy wind took one last bite at Lenore’s ankles as she closed the door. The candy bowl was dwindling. About a third of the chocolatey treats had made their way into the bags of a handful of trick-or-treaters. It was a benefit of living on the end of a side road rather than off the main road, and having a long driveway. Fewer cars made the turn off the main road and fewer parents cared to make the additional trek down the path to further fill their kids’ candy bags.

  The usual suspects had already come by. The Flandry kids, an eight-year-old blond-haired and blue-eyed boy with a growing tummy and his always skinny eleven-year-old blond sister. She lacked the blue eyes, though, instead she took after her mother, brown. Then Noah James, a spindly little kid of six or seven, sandy brown hair and grey-blue eyes. His mom, Beth James, had struggled to keep Noah from sprinting off up the path and to the front door. Lenore had smiled at the boy's exuberance. They were the only people Lenore had recognized.

  The last group had consisted of four kids. Judging by height, Lenore assumed they were each around ten except for the fourth kid, who was likely an older brother serving as the obligatory chaperon. The stale “Tell the lady thank you” had said as much at least.

  Lenore dipped her hand in the candy bowl and pulled back a miniature peanut butter Snickers, ripped open the wrapper and popped the peanut buttery goodness in her mouth. Where are you, Dalton?

  She knew better than to expect him home on time, but an hour late was even beyond her tolerance. Huffing, she finished chewing up the candy, licked away the remaining chocolate from her lips and fingers and reached for her cellphone in her pants pocket. She was not worried, no, she was agitated bordering on choleric.

  She tapped the recent calls log, chose Dalton’s name from the list and put the thin phone to her ear. Just as it had twenty minutes ago, the phone played the familiar ring on the other end, beckoning Dalton to answer but earned no answer, again. Maybe he doesn't have signal. No. Not likely.

  No, the more likely scenario was that Dalton had gotten too involved in his work. He had probably left late and did not want to explain it over the phone. He always did prefer to confront Lenore’s temper head on. It used to work, but lately, the tactic just got under Lenore's skin.

  She called again. Voicemail. Lenore ended the call. “Come on, Dalton!”

  Lenore thought of her brother, Daniel. He was probably at home helping Lori hand out candy down in Pensacola right now. She could see him smiling happily at the little kids as they ran back down the concrete sidewalk to their parents, his arm wrapped around Lori’s waist, hugging her to him. She looked down, placing the cellphone back in the pocket of her blue jeans.

  She stepped back up to the entrance door and spied out the peephole between the two pieces of frosted glass. The coast was clear. Lenore turned and made off for the stairway. In her heart she knew it was a futile thing, useless and better left untried, but her mind told her it couldn’t be that bad. Conquering the stairs, she stepped before Mara’s bedroom door and knocked. A faint yelp sounded from behind the door and Lenore tensed slightly.

  “Mara? You okay?” she asked, her sea green eyes squinted e
ver so slightly.

  “I’m fine, you scared me!” Mara’s yell came muffled through the solid wooden door.

  “Could you please come help me, Mara?” Lenore asked, almost pleaded, though she tried to keep the supplication to a minimum. She wanted to reason with her daughter. Tell her how lonely it was downstairs, how they could talk, maybe watch a movie. Anything.

  “No,” her voice came quieter this time, but still a yell, though she sounded exhausted. “I’m in solitary, remember?”

  Lenore let her forehead rest against the door, her healthy brown locks crested her shoulder and flopped down against the door and hung below her. She knew she could unlock the door and tell her to come downstairs and help. She had the authority and in that moment of rejection, she felt like exercising it. She let a few seconds pass to allow herself to think more clearly.

  “Please, Mara,” she asked once more. “I could really use the company.”

  “Solitary,” was all she got back.

  A forced smile replaced the frown on Lenore’s lightly painted lips. She shook her head and sighed as she turned in defeat, tucking tail and moving out and down the stairs back to her own solitary. Her punishment for attempting to be a good parent, she esteemed.

  She took the phone from her pocket again and dialed Dalton. The phone to her ear, Lenore peeked outside through the peephole again. To her dismay, a small Kia SUV turned into the driveway as the chimes sounded in the living room. The phone continued to ring.

  “Answer, Dalton,” she willed him. Nothing. The sound of the pre-recorded voicemail message played in her ear as one, no, two kids jumped from the SUV and were led up to the front door by their mother.

  The clatter of a hundred loud voices echoed out of the main brewery onto the patio where Dalton and Jenna sat. Lips pursed, irritated, Dalton swiped at his phone, rejecting another phone call from Lenore.

  “Was that Lenore again?” Jenna inquired. Her eyes had grown harder over the past half hour with each call from Dalton's wife. Her pale arms were beginning to show signs of the cold, tiny little chill bumps crawling up her normally smooth skin.

  “Yeah,” Dalton confirmed sourly as he pocketed the phone. “I’ll be home when I get home.”

  “You did tell her six thirty or seven, though, didn’t you?” Jenna asked, not intending to play devil’s advocate, but finding herself in those shoes nonetheless.

  He didn’t answer. Instead, Dalton stared back at her with a brow raised and took another swig from his second pint. He let the glass hit the table a little harder than he had intended which earned him a slight twitch from Jenna.

  “Don’t you think you should at least answer?” Jenna kept trying. “Maybe she’s worried.”

  “She’s not worried. She’s just needy, selfish.” Dalton was surprised at how quickly the words had come out. He had not downed enough beer for his mind to be on autopilot yet, but it felt good to vocalize the sentiment finally.

  “Too used to being in the lime light,” he continued. “She can deal with the little douches on her own tonight. I’m staying right here, with you. What am I supposed to tell her anyway? Oh hey, Lenore, I’m just out at the brewery with Jenna.”

  Jenna’s gaze remained steady on Dalton though she shifted on the wooden bench. The crowd around them had grown denser as the sky grew darker, revealing the eerie orange lighting that hung over the bay door entrances to the brewery’s interior.

  She was surprised to see so many adults in full Halloween get up. Already she had noted at least three scantily clad cats, one devil complete with tail and pitchfork, a giant condom and keg couple, too many Jasons to count and one Thor.

  “No,” Jenna paused. “I don’t know, but it just seems you should at least answer. Hell, if I think you should answer, that should tell you something.”

  “Jenna,” Dalton started. “I wasn’t going to mention this yet, but I’ve already had divorce papers drafted up. I’ve got them in my briefcase.”

  He nodded toward his car in the parking lot below them. Jenna’s eyes wandered across the crowd, past the newly arriving set of costumes, and to the stairs leading down to their cars. Was it true? Was the next step to them being together sitting only thirty yards away? She couldn’t help but let her eyes brighten. Dalton noticed.

  “It’s going to take some time, but it won’t be long now,” he explained. “I just have to sign the dotted line and start the process.”

  “What are you wa….” She stopped herself. A sudden rush of resentment flushed through her cheeks. She pursed her lips and looked at Dalton sternly. “You’re still married, though. She at least deserves an answer to her call.”

  “Seriously? You’re on her side?” Dalton asked incredulously.

  “I’m not on anyone’s side, Dalton, it’s just common courtesy. I mean it isn’t like she’s stalking you,” Jenna tried.

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” Dalton said, his voice louder than it was a few seconds ago.”

  In the rumbling of the crowd and music, his voice did not carry any further than did their loud mouthed neighbors, but Jenna’s eyes darted around them instinctively, hoping no one was witnessing their conversation. She felt something she had not expected, pity for Dalton’s wife. Would Dalton so easily throw her aside? No. It was different with them. He loved her, they understood each other. But, even still, Dalton was not willing to discuss it right now.

  “I think I’m going to head on home for the evening,” Jenna said, getting to her feet and pulling her jacket tighter to her chest. “It’s getting cold anyway.”

  “Whatever,” Dalton mumbled, refusing to make eye contact as he took another gulp from his glass.

  Her eyes darted to him, but she held her tongue. She diverted her eyes, trying to hide the hurt she felt.

  “Night, Dalton.”

  Shutting the door behind her, Lenore stepped past the stoic white pillars of the foyer and down a small step to the low-lit living room. She let her right hand caress the thick mocha leather of the oversized recliner where Dalton usually sat before she crossed between it and the sofa and fell back into the couch's cozy depths.

  A scene from the Rob Zombie Halloween remake was playing on the television, part of a Spike TV horror marathon. Lenore had watched absently between visits to the front door to greet the masked kiddies and bestow chocolate goodies on them. On the screen an attractive young lady roamed the dark recesses of her house, knife in hand. It was a testament to the fact that Zombie could make something horrific without all the crazy.

  Lenore picked up the remote and leveled up the volume just high enough that the sound was immersive yet not too loud to prevent her from hearing the door chime. She curled her feet up on the couch and laid her head on one of the wide black and white plaid cushions.

  A scream rang out from the speakers mounted around the room as Myers, face ensconced in his gray mask, suddenly appeared in a door way. He wore an oil-stained mechanic’s jumpsuit, his hair carelessly combed back, haphazardly flowing out from behind the dirtied mask. Lenore kept her eyes on the tube as the action began. The running. Mike Myers actually moved faster than a walk in this version, much to Lenore’s approval. The screaming. The eventual carnage that would ensue.

  Thirty minutes later, the credits began to roll. Lenore rolled back on the couch and let out a breath, an approval of the cinematic remake. At the bottom of the screen the title of the next movie appeared. Sinister. Lenore shrugged and reduced the volume as the credits quickened while the next movie’s opening credits began.

  The gentle chimes of the driveway sensor rang quietly in the background, signaling a new arrival. Lenore rose from the sofa with a belabored sigh. She walked to the kitchen to refill her glass before the new trick-or-treaters arrived. She passed by the open foyer where the gentle flame of a small oil lantern sent dancing rays of orange light onto the entrance door and filtered outside through the frosted glass. As her bare foot crossed the threshold into the kitchen, the ditty of the doorbell rang affabl
y throughout the space.

  “Dammit,” Lenore muttered. “Those little buggers are quick.”

  She altered her course after depositing her glass on the nearest countertop and stepped back up onto the foyer landing. She could already see several shadows behind the frosted glass. Lenore opened the door and put on her best grin.

  “Trick-or-treat,” came the usual chant as the door opened. But, instead of the shrill voice of an elementary school boy or girl, the voice was an octave lower than any of the night’s earlier patrons. Not an adult, but the owner had at least hit puberty.

  Three more masked figures. Considering both the previous vocal tone from whichever had spoken and the flat contours of their chests under graphic tees and simple blue jeans, it was a pack of boys, tiny plastic bags in hand. Each stood at least five-seven to five-eight except for the one to her left wearing the eerie crimson skull mask that wrapped around the full extent of his head. He stood even with Lenore at about five-six, not a piece of skin exposed except for his spindly wrists and hands. Even the boy's eyes were a mystery behind the mask’s grated mesh eye sockets. The boy on the right donned a familiar Freddie Kruger mask. Brown eyes cried out behind the tortured but gleeful façade covered in sinuous umber and carmine fibers of simulated burnt flesh.

  The last boy, standing front and center, wore the simplest guise. It was a homely achromatic disguise. A white hard-plastic mask with six openings. The first hole was a slit along the plastic but life-like lips which revealed the boy’s full pink lips. Another two openings created passageways for air in the nostrils of the mask and yet another two revealed two almost-black eyes. They glimmered in the small lantern light behind her. The last hole was a simulated bullet hole just below the boy's temple. It cascaded out into innumerable cracks and fragmentation marks like the skull had been a piece of glass.