by Mav Skye
“I have to tell you something.”
“What? Now?”
“Yeah.”
I glare at her.
“I… I flushed them after the first night.”
My heart jumps from a gentle throb to a hard pang, pang, pang! She had promised never to do that again. Not after what happened last time. Not after what we’ve tried so hard to build together. I feel a tear on my cheek, then another.
“You promised,” I say, sounding like the little girl I used to be—we used to be. I let go of the dagger with one hand to wipe my cheek.
“I know, but after what he did. I had to… let go.” She is a teary mess too.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I would have come and got you.”
“Because you wanted this to work. You wanted the money so badly. You want to take care of me. And I thought,” May stops and wipes the snot and tear combo dripping from her chin, “I thought if I could let go, he could just keep doing it and it wouldn’t bother me, it wouldn’t hurt so bad. You’d show up. We’d get the money and get away.”
I say coolly, “If you’re dead, that doesn’t work out.”
May cries harder. “Maybe if I was dead, you wouldn’t always have to be worrying all the time. You know, you’re not a loser like mom said. You’re smart, Jenn.”
“Shut up.”
“You could go to school.”
I let go of the dagger. Both fists ball at my side. “I said shut up.”
“And get a boyfriend and… and… if I was dead…” she sobs. Her blue eyes pleading me like a puppy, snot flowing everywhere. “You wouldn’t have to fuck’em just to afford meds for me.”
I slap her across the face. “I said shut up, May.”
She falls to the ground, her cheek bright and glistening.
“Oh,” I say, and grab the nearest figurine’s shoulder before I fall too. The dark sister’s face gazes up to some unknown savior, begging for mercy, for release or perhaps forgiveness. It reminds me of May’s just now.
“All I know is, I can’t fuck’em either. Not for you, not for me, not for us. I’m done, Jenn. Finished.”
I breathe hard. I want to beg her for forgiveness, but am I sorry? Am I sorry for trying to fix our situation? Really? I lean down to the figurine’s thigh and place both hands on the dagger. “I’m going to take care of you, May. I don’t care what it takes.”
A couple of seconds beat between us. I whisper, “Supergirls stand together.”
Her head snaps up. She looks awful. Godzilla is a bloody mess. She says, “Supergirls stay together.”
I ease the dagger into the marble gouge in the thigh. The serrated steel slides. There is a click like a puzzle coming together, then apart. The marble sister’s thigh splits open in one clean sweep. As it splits, a tiny ivory arm rises from the heart of the thigh. On its outstretched palm is a small mother of pearl box with a red velvety center. In a gentle slit within the velvet, glistens a silver key.
“May!” I say.
She jumps to her feet. “We did it!”
I hesitate as I reach inside the thigh. What if it is booby-trapped to snap close? The levers don’t click or grind, so I snatch up the key.
“We did it!” May shrieks again. She reaches into the box and touches the velvet, talking frantically to herself, or perhaps to her whistling deer head. “… and then we did it!”
Even as she says this, I think of the cellar, where the safe is, and the noises I heard coming from behind the black door. In May’s state, I couldn’t risk her going downstairs. I will have to go down alone.
“What’s that?” May asks. A little button pokes out by the velvet pocket, before I can stop her, she pushes it.
The room explodes with a BOOM! I dive to the floor and cover my head. BOOM! BOOM!
At first, I am only aware of my heart beating in time boom, boom, boom… then I feel May’s hands on me. I lift my head. She’s tugging on my hand, smiling, her lips are moving as well as her hips.
I can’t hear a word she’s saying. Then I realize the Boom! is heavy bass. Black Eyed Peas sing “Imma Be” in rising concert crescendo. The room is jumping with music. The bubbles in the tank rise and sink to the beat.
“Dance! Dance!” May screams above the Boom!
I hold the key in front of me like a mission, my life, my salvation to that big ol’ pot of gold, a better life for the both of us. The danger isn’t close to over. And May wants to do what?
May pulls me to my feet and jumps in circles around me, laughing.
Fat Bastard listens to this? While doing what?
May dances. “Come ON!” she screams. Godzilla bounces around the room. She bumps hips and shoulders with the sisters of pain.
The song ends and David Bowie’s “Heroes” switches on. My favorite. I start swaying, swinging my arms in the air. “It’s David Bowie!”
“Yeah, Sis!” screams May. And we dance together. She in her blood and snot stained Godzilla t-shirt and blue lace panties, me in my snapped wonder bra and sexy get away jeans.
We completely let go. Both of us. The Supergirls dance with dark and light sisters of pain, we dance under the ceiling of dagger stars, key of salvation held high in the air. For once, I can see through May’s eyes. I can see why she prefers to let go instead staying grounded. It is effortless, freeing. No regrets, no tomorrow or yesterday, the entirety of life is in this very moment. And this very moment we are David Bowie’s Heroes. We jump, sway, swim, and swing, until the Supergirls fly.
May leaps up on the chair and reaches for the opal handled daggers.
“No!” I laugh. “Oh no, don’t you dare!”
The sisters of pain raise their arms, left and right. I do the Macarena with them. May reaches far to her left and the sisters’ heads slide to the right, then the left. I dance like an Egyptian too.
We both laugh ourselves to tears, while the music plays on, now Aerosmith’s “Eat the Rich” is playing. We scream every single word, while May plays with daggers and I do the wave with the sisters of pain, then pretend to play electric guitar.
At the end of the song, May playfully falls from the chair, and we collapse on the carpet laughing.
She points at me, “You’re good.”
“Oh, no, you took it away with sister pain over there.”
“But nothing like you with—“
Between songs, there is a pause of silence. Then a sudden loud BANG! stops us in our tracks. We freeze.
“I think that’s the kitchen door,” says May.
I nod.
A burst of music startles us. Buckcherry’s “Dead” blasts the room like a rocket ship.
May lurches at the button inside the figurine’s thigh. The music dies.
Silence sinks the room.
May pulls out the pistol and aims at the door. Where had she been hiding that thing? I stuff the key in my pocket, and snatch up the unicorn dagger. We both sidle up to the marble sister beside the door. I grab the back of her noggin and flick it forward, and the lights flip off. The soft glare from the bubble wall dominates the room once more, revealing only shadows. We peak out the door. The hallway is dark as before.
“Who do you think it is?” May breathes inside my ear.
I look at her and gulp. Hard. “You stay here. I’ll go check.”
She glances around the midnight room. She can’t see the sisters of pain, but knowing they are there… “Fuck that. I’m going with you.”
10
Eye for a Bullet
Monster for a Tear
We creep from the green room down the dark hall. I signal back to May, staying her in the hall, then draw the unicorn dagger. I take a deep breath and peek around the corner into the living room.
Fat Bastard is gone.
“Impossible.” My mouth gapes open.
“What?” May scrambles into the living room beside me.
“He’s gone.”
May pulls the hammer back on the gun.
I look at her. “Easy on that
thing.”
May makes eyes at me and whisks a few stray hairs from her face. “I know how to use it now.”
“Put it away somewhere, so I know you won’t accidentally blow my head off.” I scrutinize the living room, making sure no one is hiding behind the desk, piano, sofa, then turn back to May.
She puts her hands up, gun gone. I nod and we edge into the living room.
A pool of blood seeps into the grizzly rug. The fireplace smolders, accentuating the heavy metallic scent of gore.
I examine the rope that had bound him. A smooth razor cut had set Fat Bastard free, There’s no way in hell he did it himself.
“Where did the blood come from?” May’s voice squeaks funny. She turns her head away, avoiding my gaze.
I watch her closely. “Perhaps he hurt himself while cutting the rope?” but something doesn’t sit well with me.
“There isn’t anything nearby he could have cut it with.” May looks at me, glances away, then looks at me again and says, “You tied it too well. He couldn’t have escaped.”
She is acting weird. “Maybe the poker?” Perhaps he’d used the poker to break the binds and stabbed himself in the process, but the poker is where I left it, across the room.
A blood trail leads out of the living room. “Looks like he went this way,” says May, and fleeing to the kitchen.
In the kitchen, the blood trail smears across the tile as if he had to drag his whole body weight. Odd. Something isn’t right here, but I can’t’ figure out what.
May fidgets. She knows something, but isn’t telling. I follow the blood through the kitchen, around the table between the two doors.
“Which door did Mr. Piggy take?” May asks.
I step around the table, the blood pools at the black door to the right. “He would have chosen the cellar.”
“Weird,” says May. She edges around the blood and touches the black door. “The door is still bolted.”
I frown. Why would Fat Bastard bolt the door from the inside? I swing around and face May. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“God! No, Jenn! Geez.” She fidgets more and paces.
Something is wrong about this whole situation.
“What did you do, May?”
“I didn’t do anything! It was the whistling deer head. It made me!” She points toward the living room. “It told me to do it.” She flings her arms in the air and frantically talks gibber-ish under her breath, explaining away to some unknown entity why she did what she did.
We both need to be calm. We have the key, all we need is the safe, which is down in the cellar with Fat Bastard.
Shit.
Obviously, Fat Bastard is hurt, badly, if all the blood on the floor is his. We have the gun and dagger. So we have the advantage. “Supergirls,” I whisper. “Supergirls.”
“Stand together,” says May, still pacing.
“Stay together,” I say back, standing by the door.
A loud thump, thump, thump pounds on the other side of the cellar door.
“Holy Shit!” I mouth almost slipping in the pool of blood.
May grabs the gun out from somewhere. I realize it’s from the back of her blue lace panties.
A giggle escapes my lips. My sneakers are gooey and red, drenched in Fat Bastard’s blood. Death is pounding from the great unknown on the other side of the door.
Thump, thump thump!
And I giggle again. It builds to uncontrollable hysterics. The image of May shoving the gun down her lace panty butt crack and drawing it like an old west cowboy is too much. Who are we? Who the fuck are we?
Supergirls for real, that’s who.
May’s eyes bulge, giving her that doey innocent look. “What the fuck are you laughing about? Cut it out!” She emphasizes this by beating the butt of the gun on her bare thigh, all big sister like.
I bend over howling. My stomach muscles ache, and I clutch myself, carefully turning the dagger away. I’m tired, I’m so tired, yet I laugh and laugh. Tears flow down my cheeks and drip to the blood on the floor.
May puts a finger to her lips shushing me. “Jenn. Jesus…”
Still bent, I sober when I see a single tear drip into blood like rain to oil. Only Fat Bastard’s blood isn’t oil. Like a giant mouth, it swells and swallows my tears. I wipe the wetness from my face and stand.
Looking at May holding the gun makes me want to explode again, but I don’t. I tuck my hand in my jeans pocket, withdraw it like a gun and shoot it in the air with a wink. She watches me, now confused and scared. I realize my actions are inappropriate. But hell, I’m letting go… and it feels good.
Another thump, thump, thump wallops the other side of the door-- and this time there is another noise. A moaning.
I lean my back against the black wood, and stare at the other door, the white door.
White door, black door.
White, black…
Old folks say the world is simply made of black and white. There is no gray. How is that true? How the fuck does that sum up reality? Right now, this second, I could toss the dagger, grab May’s hand and escape through the white door, white like heaven, and what then? We’d have zip. Nada. We can’t return to the studio. Fat Bastard and Leroy know where we live. All we’d have is our miserable, crappy (and psychotic) lives.
And each other, something whispers or does it whistle? I don’t know anymore. Through the white door—it’s running away. Running away from the one thing May and I have always wanted: peace.
No, the only way to peace is through darkness, the black door, through the cellar to the money.
Mother’s words come back to me. “Hell is behind a black door.”
I turn and face the black door, place my hand on the bolt. There is a monster in the dark to confront.
“And one day, you’ll find it, and thee will smite the devil.”
Fat Bastard, the devil. My mother, the prophetess. How special.
Perhaps I’ll die, perhaps May will. This is where the gray area lies, the future. Why can’t there be a clear-cut way of what to do and when? Why the fuck did mother have to be a junkie? Why did May have to be born psychotic? Nothing is fair. Nothing is black and white. It’s all just grey and death.
I glance at May, pacing and mumbling nonsense. The ebony table draws my eye, particularly the gold edging: the serpent and tree of gems. Choices, is everything about choice and consequence? If so, that doesn’t leave much room for destiny.
The moaning creature pounds the door.
Fat Bastard. I grit my teeth and draw my eyes away from the tree with gems. Black, white or grey: if you want something you have to go for it, the consequences be damned.
The monster pounds the door harder.
May startles and turns to me.
I say, “That son of a bitch.”
She nods.
I motion to May and breathe, “When I unbolt the door, I’ll drop to the floor and you shoot.”
She says nothing, but stands back and aims.
I say, “One, two, three…”
I unbolt, swing open the door and drop. I see a bloody string of rope on a slender ankle and torn panty hose. Two cuffed hands wave frantically. A horrified face covered with bruises and duct tape screams silently.
“May, no!”
But it’s too late. The gun has already fired.
The woman thumps to the kitchen tile at my face, blood spraying into my eyes, my mouth.
May drops the gun and simply stares. She covers her mouth.
I sit up, shaking and shivering. I claw the woman’s blood from my eyes and spit. Bile swells and builds in my throat. I reach out to the woman, my hands hovering over her bruised, beat body. I want to place my fingers on her, to comfort her, heal her. But May’s aim had been perfect. The bullet had hollowed the woman’s hazel eye and blown her brains out the back of her head. Her one good eye is free of brain and blood, and I swear it looks at me. Why? It asks, Why me?
“I’m so sorry.” I can’t
touch her. My hands go to my stomach instead. I turn aside and throw up the few grapes I had earlier.
“The deer head is whistling. It whistles and whistles.” May is pacing again. She covers her ears, and rocks herself as she walks. “The deer head whistles and it’s all my fault.”
“No, May,” and I know it’s all mine. I let her have the gun and told her to shoot. Tonight everything was supposed to change. And it has, but not in the way I hoped, had dreamed of for so long.
“The deer head whistles. It whistles.”
May is gone for now. I look down, and so is the young woman at my feet.
“May, where’s the gun?” I look at May’s hands, the floor, the table. The gun is gone. Perhaps tucked in her blue undies. If that is the case, I don’t want it anyway. “Stay in the kitchen, May. Wait for me.”
She paces in my Godzilla t-shirt. “The deer head whistles. It’s all my fault.”
I say, “Supergirls stand together.”
She says, “Supergirls stay together. It’s all my fault.”
I breathe a bit of relief. Some of her is still here and I have the unicorn dagger. The money is downstairs, somewhere, and I have the only key to it.
The old folks say there is only black and white. That may do for their tidy lives, but it doesn’t apply to all of us. We, Supergirls for real and the wretched creature at my feet, live in the gray and the mist. We may never see the stars, but we believe in the dream of them.
The old folks also say, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” This one I know is true, because this bitch has a lotta will and only one fucking way.
“Here Piggy, Piggy,” I say, stepping down into the abyss, behind the black door.
11
Behind the Black Door
Grave dark swallows me. I clutch the railing and hear nothing but my heart pounding wildly. I take a step, pause, listen and then another step. The unicorn dagger twists slightly in my sweaty palm.
In the blackness and quietness, step by step, I feel the storm within me ease and still. A metamorphosis. No longer is it fear pulsing my veins, nor is terror shivering my spine, but a red-hot hunger. No longer am I the victim of a twisted imagination. I am the predator.
