Strawberries

by Casey Bartsch

  When she had finally made her way through the hay, she once again could feel the great black void in front of her. She needed a light switch; any light switch. In an effort to find one, she took careful steps, one after the other, in a straight line. She was beginning to think that the walls of the barn must be magically moving away from her.

  Then she slipped.

  She would have been splayed out had she not caught herself with her right hand on the ground. She got back up and wiped the barn muck away as best she could.

  Ultimately, she found a wall, and then followed it until she came across a switch box, she used her hand to feel the device like brail, and when she found a lever, she pulled it. A great sound bellowed through the darkness, metal against metal, serenading the air with a scream. Shelly flipped the switch back, and though the sound had ceased, the ringing in her ears had not.

  An actual light switch was just a foot further down the wall, and when she flipped it, lines of fluorescent lights began their slow crawl to illumination. As it grew brighter, she saw that she had not slipped on straw as she had thought, but blood, leaving the streak of her shoe and a handprint behind. She looked down at her red right hand, and the streak she had left across her blouse.

  She tried to keep her mind detached from her stomach as it threatened to let fly its contents. She heaved once, but pulled herself together.

  The itching helped. Her skin felt like Independence Day sparklers–snap, crackle, and popping all over. She unbuttoned her shirt to scratch herself, forgetting about the blood that stained her. She then removed the shirt completely and whipped it in the air, letting straw, wheat, and dust fling from it.

  She thought about doing the same thing with her jeans, but decided against it. If she were to be caught in this barn, surely inevitable with the racket she had made, it would not be naked. She was wearing a purple satin bra that was thin enough to show the full outline of her nipples. She realized that she was wearing panties that matched, and wondered why in the world she was wearing fuck me clothes in the middle of a murder scene. She wondered if Robert liked purple.

  She laughed then. Loudly. The situation had gone so over the top that it stopped being disturbing and became hilarious.

  Still giggling, she swung her shirt across her shoulder. If this was a mission into enemy territory, and it rather was, she would have failed it miserably. If the noise and lights hadn't alerted anyone to her presence, then there simply wasn't anyone around to alert.

  She looked around, imagining what may have occurred, trying to see what Robert had done and taking mental notes along the way. At the rear of the barn, she found a small room and she flipped on its light. It was filled with tools, and at the rear of the room was another door. When she opened it, there was more yellow tape. The night had fully settled in, and everything before her was pitch black. There was a shallow breeze that moved some leaves in the distance, but that was the only sound she heard.

  She took her cell phone from her pocket and used its flashlight feature; turning it on to its brightest setting made the grass in front of her glow a bright green. The sudden burst of light was a shock on her eyes, but when she was able to focus again, she moved the flashlight up to look around. What she saw should have stunned her more than it did. Perhaps her situation really had gotten too disturbing to bother her anymore.

  The light showed a line of trees a football field away, and standing just in front of them was Robert Kirkman.

  Despite the darkness and the space between them, Shelly was sure that it was him. He no longer had any hair, but his eyes were unforgettable. As she looked at him, he began to smile. Even at this distance, she could see his big, powerful grin just as well as the blood crusted on her hand. The same smile that had haunted and thrilled her since the day she first glimpsed it.

  She had thought about, and hoped for, this moment for so long and now she didn't exactly know what to do with it. It wasn't as if she had ever planned to take him out for coffee, and she was acutely aware of the danger that she was in, but she had never envisioned their meeting to be quite like this.

  As if sensing her indecisiveness, Robert came to her.

  Suddenly frightened, she wondered why she hadn't been all along. This man, that she was so obsessed with, was going to fucking kill her. Shelly backed up, angry with herself for being so stupid. She watched him approach, and though he was only walking, his stride was swift. He was halfway to the barn door now. She backed up further, her fear telling her just to run away, to get out of there, and never look back. However, there was always that other part of her. The curious part. The ambitious part.

  The part of her that always won.

  Robert was nearly to the door, but Shelly stopped backing up. She was going to see this through, even though she felt like she might pee her pants. She was stricken then by her near nakedness. It turned out that her modesty existed even in fear. She held her shirt in front of her chest, hugging it to her like a shield. When she looked up again, he was standing just on the other side of the yellow tape.

  He eyed her with curiosity, and his gaze felt to her as if he was deciding just how he might kill a woman such as she. He was scratching his arms, and that made her aware that she was doing the same. Her mind had temporarily forgotten her itch, but her body had not. She thought that he might have been mocking her, mimicking her movements, but then she saw the trickle of blood running down his arm.

  He wasn't just scratching; he was digging.

  “Please don't come any closer. I just want to talk to you,” she said, calmer than she expected.

  He didn't step into the barn, but instead, reached up and gently pulled down the police tape.

  “I know who you are, and I know that you can hurt me,” she continued.

  “Anyone can hurt,” he said. The sound of his voice made his presence more menacing, and yet strangely comforting. As if with speech came recognition that Robert was a man, not an unnamed evil.

  “We've met before. Do you remember? At the Lincoln Hospital.”

  “I remember a woman with questions.”

  “Yes, that was me.”

  He took two steps forward and now stood just inside the barn. Shelly could see his full figure bathed in light. She had not realized how scarred his body was. He had changed his look so much since that day at Lincoln.

  “I think I can help you,” she told him.

  “A man asks for help when he needs it.”

  He was scratching deeper and more vigorously now, the blood leaving his wounds more quickly.

  “I know your name, Robert, and I think I know what you're looking for. I can help you find them.”

  He looked down at the barn floor and loosened his grip on his torn skin. He let his arm go free, and without anything to stop it, blood soon painted his arm red. He was silent, but Shelly could feel his thoughts like humidity in the air.

  “Your name is Robert Kirkman.”

  “I remember that name, but it doesn't belong to me anymore. The energy has left that name, as it has left me.”

  He dug deeper into his skin.

  Shelly thought he might even be as deep as the bone.

  “Is that why you're searching? To find energy?”

  “I need it back. Maybe yours will be enough. The last was not.”

  He stepped to her, his face visibly in pain.

  Shelly had no more room for retreat. She had foolishly backed into a corner rather than the doorway leading to the rest of the barn.

  Now, Robert was blocking her only escape route, and he was almost on her.

  “I think… I think you want your family Robert. You're looking for them. Aren't you? I can take you to them.”

  He stopped.

  “A man needs a family.”

  “Yes, he does. He really, really does,” Shelly said, releasing a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

  “Take me,” he said.

  She had finally gotten through. Her fear instantly turned to confidence.
Now he was all hers, and Shelly could get what she needed.

  “I will, Robert, I promise that I will. However, you must do something for me. It's only fair.”

  “What must I do?”

  “I'm a reporter Robert, remember? And, you're my story. I want to ask you some more questions, and I want to do it on the air. After that, we'll go straight to your family.”

  “No cameras,” he stated bluntly.

  “Alright, deal. There doesn't have to be cameras, but I have to record your voice.”

  “I've seen these stories on television. I don't care for them. They sound like lies. Ugly, ugly lies.”

  “I'll be honest, Robert, most of them are, but I don't want this one to be. This story will all be in your own words, and you don't seem much like a liar to me.”

  “A man tells the truth. I'll answer your silly questions so that you can have your story, but not until you take me to where I need to go. And if you try to trick me, there will be no more treats for you.”

  “OK, but I get to tease the story before we leave.”

  “Tease?”

  “I mean I'll say on the air that the story will be coming later. To get people excited. I'll use your name. I want to be the one that tells your name to the world.”

  “I have told you, what you are calling me is not my name.”

  “Then it shouldn't matter if I say it then, right?”

  “Very well, we have a bargain,” said Robert.

  “Shelly. My name is Shelly.”

  “That is inconsequential.”

  “Oh, well, should we at least shake on it?”

  “No,” Robert turned around, walked back out of the barn, and then took a right. Shelly followed him, struggling to keep up with his long, fluid gate. Shelly didn't know how Robert knew where her car was, but he was heading in its exact direction.

  “Why were you here?” she asked.

  “Where?”

  “Why were you still here? At the barn? Weren't you afraid of getting caught?”

  Robert did an about face, and Shelly nearly ran right into him. Her head mere inches from the killer's chest, she looked up. The moon was behind Robert's head, and even in the dark, she could see his teeth as he smiled down at her.

  “I always stay, and they never see. The energy hides me as it heals me.”

  “You stay every time?”

  Not answering, he turned around and walked once more. Shelly scurried behind, but was now careful not to get too close.

  TWENTY FIVE

  We open again in the same Italian restaurant that we were in previously. Sylvia is sitting alone, curious as to why Bill would have chosen the same spot for his second chance. He was nearly fifteen minutes late, and Sylvia was planning on waiting until the clock struck 8:20 before moving on to greener pastures. After two minutes of almost complete silence, Bill enters stage right.

  BILL

  I'm so, so sorry. Work ran late. I got out as quickly as I could. Have you been waiting long?

  SYLVIA

  I've been waiting exactly how long a person would have been waiting had they got here on time.

  The teeth in Sylvia's voice were chomping down hard.

  BILL

  Oh God. You're angry. Please forgive me. My boss really would not let me leave.

  SYLVIA

  So, you had a lot of paper that really needed pushing then?

  Bill seemed a bit confused.

  BILL

  What? Oh, wait, no. Actually, about that. I lied to you before. I don't actually have an office job. I always say that because it leaves room for interpretation and helps build the mystery.

  SYLVIA

  You thought that telling me that you worked in an office setting would actually give you an air of mystery.

  BILL

  Silly, huh?

  SYLVIA

  Silly is one word for it. What do you actually do?

  She did it again. She asked about the job. Would she ever learn that lesson?

  BILL

  I'm a projectionist. I run films at an art-house theater downtown. Mostly foreign stuff.

  SYLVIA

  You work at the Grande?

  BILL

  Yes. You know it?

  SYLVIA

  Yeah, I go there sometimes, when I want to be alone and get away from my life for a bit. I like French and Japanese films. Last month I saw La Petite Lili. It was wonderful.

  BILL

  It's great there. I get to see a lot of wonderful films, which are my passion. I'm trying to write scripts for a living. Obviously, that hasn't taken off yet. What about you? What is it like being a flight attendant? I'm not supposed to say stewardess, right? That's right up there with midget and retarded.

  There it was. He wanted to know more. He was probing into the one place that she didn't want probed, so to speak. Maybe she should just lay it out there on the table, naked and wiggling, just to see how he took it. It might shorten the evening and let her get some sleep.

  SYLVIA

  There are a lot worse things to be called than stewardess, trust me. Like, whore, for one.

  BILL

  Oh, I would never call you that.

  SYLVIA

  Never say never.

  BILL

  So you give the signals, right? You tell people how to put their seat belts on. Show them the exits?

  SYLVIA

  Actually, my job is more about the entrances.

  She laughed at her own little joke. Wine threatened to leak from her nose. Her chuckle was loud enough to attract the attention of other patrons. Glances were given.

  BILL

  I obviously missed a joke there.

  SYLVIA

  (collecting herself)

  Well, Bill, it's like this. I'm paid a lot of money to party with, and often times, sleep with rich men while flying high in their private jets.

  Pause.

  BILL

  So you're a… prostitute?

  SYLVIA

  Now you're getting it, Bill. And, you can go ahead and call me a whore. I don't actually mind the term. I still wouldn't call a midget a midget if I were you though. Also, no one ever puts on a seat belt in private jets unless it's about to crash. Do you want to leave?

  Bill adjusted himself in his seat and took a large gulp of his wine. He rocked back and forth on his chair as if he were adjusting a hemorrhoid pillow. However, surprising Sylvia, he didn't leave.

  BILL

  Nah, I'm fine with that.

  SYLVIA

  Is that so?

  BILL

  I have never been against selling sex. I think that it's a more valid service than most, actually. Everyone wants to get off don't they?

  SYLVIA

  Oh, yes. They definitely do.

  BILL

  Yeah, most people want to get off more than anything else. Why wouldn't you pay to have that done for you?

  SYLVIA

  Well, that's a very mature response, Bill. But really, could you date a person that did that for a living? Wouldn't your male ego get crushed or something?

  BILL

  I'm on a date with a woman who does it for a living right now, and I don't want to leave just yet. Truth is, how am I to know just how it's going to affect me over time? I can't know that yet. I assume that love plays no part in your job, and I also assume that this particular job has a relatively short shelf life. So if in the future, things were to develop with us, say love came into play, then I could be secure in the knowledge that you loved only me, and after buckets of money was made, your body would be all mine too. Though I doubt that I'd want to hear all the gory details, I could live with it I think.

  The waiter walked up, breaking the moment between them. Sylvia ordered first while Bill took a quick glance at the menu that he had yet to pick up. After he ordered for himself, he ordered another glass of wine for Sylvia. She doubted that he knew just how sexy she thought that was. Had he ordered her meal for her, she would have felt him a chauvin
ist, but the simple act of noticing that she was out of wine, and probably wanted more, really did it for her. Sex and wine were almost the same thing to Sylvia.

  BILL

  So is there any other bombshells you'd like to drop?

  SYLVIA

  I am a transsexual.

  Pause.

  SYLVIA (CONT'D)

  That you have a problem with? I can suck a dick, but I can't have a dick?

  BILL

  Oh, the mouth on this one. No, I was just thinking of how hot a transsexual you'd be, and that I've already seen what's between those slender legs of yours. Remember?

  Sylvia laughed again.

  SYLVIA

  Ha! That's right, I'd forgotten.

  BILL

  It's good to make an impression.

  SYLVIA

  Hush. You know what I mean.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, during which the waiter brought Bill a glass of wine and filled her own.

  SYLVIA

  I'm wondering now, does a transgendered individual who commits a crime go to boy prison or girl prison?

  BILL

  I'm not sure, but it most likely has a lot to do with how liberal the state is where the prison is located, as well as what gender is on the birth certificate.

  SYLVIA

  Man, you really think things through don't you Bill? You see, I was thinking that if they went to boy prison, they'd have to be the greatest prison bitch the world had ever seen.