Aside from the bloody lips, Rosa looked even paler yet, approaching the bleached color of her doppelganger in the other room. George spotted the severed fingertip again and put the first knuckle of his clenched fist between his teeth. He bit down hard enough to temper the anxiety of looking at his own severed body part—albeit a small one—and the action served to help get him thinking, instead of going into a panic.
There was a perfectly logical explanation for this. In fact, it was so simple that it took almost no time at all to figure out. The little bitch had bitten off the fingertip that very evening, at the same time she’d clawed his arm, before he left for work. In his currently stressed state—the one that had led to him hearing a dead girl’s whispers—he had also repressed the fact that he was missing part of his finger, something that had no doubt been bandaged all the while he was at work. Yes, that made perfect sense.
Except that it didn’t. Not at all. How in the hell would he have simply forgotten that a piece of his anatomy had been amputated and gone on about his evening at work without a second thought?
George. Rosa’s blue lips gave not a twitch when her voice danced in George’s ears.
“No,” he said, scrambling backward and around the edge of the water heater. “No, no, no.”
I’m here, Rosa whispered. Here with you now.
“No, you’re not my Rosa,” George said warily. His back was against the hard wall now.
I’m yours. You are mine.
“No,” he whispered. He stared at the lifeless husk of her contorted body, and at once became enraged. “No!”
George stood up, stomped over to her, yelling all the way.
“No! You’re dead, do you hear me? You are nothing, have always been nothing but an empty, pretty shell! Like an Easter egg whore! You are an Easter egg whore! You are not my Rosa!”
George kicked her limp form as spittle flew from his lips. He bent down, not allowing himself to listen to her whispers, and dragged her forcibly over the crinkly surface of the tarp.
You’re mine.
George barked a laugh. He rolled the girl’s stiff body up like a grisly cigar, until there were four layers of plastic between her and the floor. He then used the duct tape to seal the death shroud permanently. All the while, her voice drifted out to him, clear as day, but George just shook his head and shouted obscenities loud enough to drown out her soft noise. When she was done, wrapped in her cocoon of eternal sleep, George grabbed Rosa by the feet and hauled her out of the closet.
Grunting, he pulled her through the mannequin room, moving quickly so that his lovelies would not have to witness this repulsive act. He saw fallen drops of blood, his blood, that were now brown blobs in the dirt and could not help from stealing at glance up at Rosa, his Rosa.
The gravelly crunch of weighted plastic on dirt came to a stop. George dropped the corpse’s feet, but still stood hunched.
She was gone. Rosa was gone. He had left her standing right there, at the front of the line, standing sentry over his fallen blood droplets. And now…
George straightened his spine with great effort. His age defied his will but eventually he stood erect. He scanned the room with terrified confusion. The most magnificent of his mannequins was nowhere to be found.
George. I’m here.
“No! You shut your filthy mouth!”
Where had she gone? Had he moved her and forgotten about it? All at once his memory seemed like a sponge. It was pliable and porous, an untrustworthy thing. And his head felt thick and slow. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to be in his bed, resting away this awful feeling that he was no longer in control of his own mind. His hands were sweaty and he dragged the good one across the top of his balding head. The thought of bed brought a wan smile to his lips and he sighed. The most important thing was for him to rest. Even the mystery of the mislaid mannequin was a result of his stress and sleep deprivation, he knew.
“Not yet,” he told himself. “Soon.”
I’m waiting.
“Yes,” George said, picking up the dead woman’s feet. “I know.”
A minute later he had dragged Rosa past his bed and across the length of the main room. Still there was no sign of her plastic twin, but George did not let this bother him. The things that no longer made sense to him about that evening—and there were many of them—he had forfeited to resolving later, once his mind was again trustworthy.
George grunted as he pulled the giant blue burrito up the stairs. Rosa’s head thunked against bare wooden risers with every step, her neck giving the occasional crack. It was a tough trip, moving her dead weight up the incline with only one good hand, and George was thankful that he’d finished digging the hole in the shed earlier that afternoon. The last two steps were the worst, with George wincing as muscles strained in his back. He gave one last great heave before his backside connected with the door. Had he closed that?
George huffed. He let the girl’s feet loose, and when she did not slide downward, he turned to open the door. The knob would not budge. It was locked, from the outside. But frustrating as that was, it was also perplexing, because the knob itself had no lock. The only way to seal that door reliably was with the padlock. George shook the door by its handle and heard the lock clank against the brass housing on the other side. It was impossible. There was someone in the house with him. And they’d locked him in his own basement.
Gritting his teeth, George slammed against the door with his shoulder. He grimaced as bone met solid oak and let out a yelp. The door was undamaged. His temper got the best of him and George kicked the door. It was an awkward act, given his limited range of motion, and George wound up booting the thing with most of his big toe. Excruciating pain caused him to lose his balance and he took a step back, whereupon he slipped on the bagged body and both he and Rosa rolled down the stairs.
George felt something grind sharply in his lower back, deep in the muscle and bone, and he shrieked. He landed in a twisted heap, with Rosa’s body sliding to rest atop his left leg. He tried to stand, but not only was his body exhausted, a stabbing jolt deep in his lumbar vertebrae brought tears to his eyes every time he attempted to move.
He sat propped up on his elbows, one of which was deeply bruised, staring up the endless staircase like a prisoner whose cell offers a view of the escape key, hung just out of reach. His spine protested the movement with a series of electric jolts which caused him to shout pathetically. He slumped down again, head flat against the floor, tears streaming from his eyes. The pain dulled, barely.
George.
The voice was louder now, not so much a whisper, but still very soft. It drew George’s attention to the impromptu body bag draped diagonally across his legs. Its inhabitant did not stir, but called his name once more, like a summoning lover hailing him from the bedroom. Oh, God, how he needed his bed. His back would feel so much better if only he could crawl to his bed. He could deal with the door—with the body—when he awoke later in the afternoon. He would find Rosa then too, his Rosa. Or, rather, he would find where he had mislaid her in his fervor.
George craned his head to the side, gave a longing look at the simple bed. Its frame was chipped and rusting in spots but the bare twin mattress sitting atop it looked infinitely more comfortable than hard, dirty concrete. From where he was situated, George could barely see the alarm clock on the nightstand. It read 5:39 a.m.
The bed was only fifteen feet away. He could make it. And everything would be better when he had rested.
And then he caught a flicker of movement in the shadows beneath the bed. A pair of bright white eyes stared back at him from under the mattress, engulfed in a rich mass of brunette hair.
“Rosa? Why are you hiding?”
George was surprised to see her there, his statuesque masterpiece of loveliness. But he did not seem surprised by the fact that she was moving of her own free will. A smooth, white arm reached out from the darkness, followed by a face whose lower half was crusted with George’s dried b
lood.
George.
Rosa crawled from the depths, articulated joints creaking as she clacked across the room with unnatural speed. Her stiff fingernails met George’s forearm, piercing the flesh clear through to the concrete.
George screamed as white hot pain stabbed through his body.
Rosa hovered over him for a moment, head cocked toward his nonsensical pleas, before her mouth split open to reveal jagged fiberglass teeth. An instant later, her face was buried in his throat.
George tried to scream but his words were lost in a fountain of retched blood. He stared up at her, choking, as the world quickly went black.
She was so beautiful.
Interlude: Into the Vortex
I think I might go into the vortex today.
I've always thought about it—I mean, wouldn't you think about it if you had a rip in the space/time continuum in your apartment?
But maybe I'm a little too spineless to go through with it. That's what my girlfriend says—that I'm spineless—but she's big and mean and built like a roly poly. I'd never say that to her face, though. It's not that I'm scared, it's just too much of a hassle to deal with the repercussions.
I don't have to deal with her tonight, though, because I lied and told her I had to work late. And so I eat my TV dinner and read yesterday's paper while the TV rattles on in the background. Nothing but bad news these days. Nothing but kids being bad and people dying and the world moving too fast for everyone to keep up with.
I think long into the night about the vortex and fall asleep on the couch still thinking about it. In the background Al Bundy makes a smart aleck remark and my 19 inch TV that makes everyone look like they were baked in a bad tanning bed spits canned laughter. I’m recording it, so I'll watch it tomorrow.
And after that, maybe I'll go into the vortex.
*
Today my girlfriend came over after work.
We ate Chinese food, or maybe I should say she ate Chinese food. She needs to retain her figure, she says. Is round a figure? I would ask but...well, you know, repercussions.
Later she asks the dreaded question.
“Can we plllleeeeease make out?” she pleads, in a nasally, whining tone that could strip bark off a tree. I haven't kissed her in two weeks and soon I remember why. It's like having a walrus eat your face. I've never had my face eaten by a walrus, but I do imagine the overall feeling and sensations are strikingly similar.
Slurp slurp smack squelch.
God, this might take a while.
As her colossal, clammy tongue threatens to collapse my air passage, I try to remember the name of the song I heard on the radio this morning. Catchy tune, really. I think it's that Chris Everson guy. Yeah, that's it. That kid's gonna be something one of these days if he can stay off the drugs.
I make my grocery list in my head, and decide I need a loaf of bread. Maybe two. I should probably vacuum later, too. Did I leave the stove on? No, I didn't leave the stove on—I had a microwave TV dinner today. That was good Salisbury steak. A little salty, though.
I use my index finger and write my name in her fat rolls. I think she's past 300 now—no, actually I know she's past 300 now. I try to see if I can remember cursive lettering but she giggles like the Pillsbury Doughboy when I dot my 'i'.
I sigh and she, mistaking it for enjoyment, makes a snarling sound like a wolverine in heat and proceeds to devour my chin. I'm not sure how she does it, but her mouth is actually over my chin.
I think I might go into the vortex today.
*
Today I worked two hours overtime, because when one person screws up in our department everyone has to suffer. I've learned that it doesn't pay to be good at your job. It pays to be mediocre. If you excel at your job, everyone expects so much more of you, but you get nothing in return. Nothing. So I figure sometimes it's best to just join the herd. It's always the sheep that strays off on his own that gets eaten by the wolf, isn't it?
When I leave work, I see I’ve just missed the sun, which has crept below the horizon, out of reach. I head to work in darkness and I leave in darkness. During the day I live in fluorescence. I'm not sure I remember what the sun looks like, except for the circle with tall spikes around it that I doodle on pieces of blue card stock, where choppy lines form the grass field for my ninja battles. The black stick figure ninja always beats the white-out stick figure ninja. It's not a racial thing; I just don't think ninjas dressed in white are very intimidating.
Look at me, thinking about racial discrimination among stick figure ninjas. Before I can ponder it any more, my girlfriend calls me on my cellphone. The screen is cracked, so I can't see the number, but I recognize her ring. It sounds like dread. So I don't pick up.
I should really think about going into the vortex today.
*
Last night I dreamt about it. The vortex, that is. All shiny and green and swirling. It invites you in, even if you can't bring that quivering big toe to make first contact. It's like looking into a pool on a just-slightly-too cold day and getting shivers in your body without actually stepping in. You can't just step into the vortex, I think. You have to dive.
I looked at it again today. That's probably why I've been dreaming about it lately. It's behind the bookcase, you know. I found it three months ago when I was cleaning. I also found seventy two cents and a stale Cheeto, but I think that discovery is slightly less significant. It's green, it sparkles like a million diamonds, and it's all mine.
I have a lot to catch up on today, but I'll go into the vortex tomorrow. I promise myself I will.
*
Today at work was pretty uneventful. Well, except for the one thing. My boss came onto me—started trying to kiss me, touch my leg, even. I've never had so many raunchy things whispered into my ear. Something about stockings and g-string underpants and high-heeled shoes.
But I just don't see Mr. Grimsley like that. So he fired me.
I'm going into the vortex today.
*
Today my girlfriend came over to eat. I guess I shouldn't have to specify that, because if she comes over, it's to eat. She asks if I want the rest of my fried chicken and before I can answer, I see a drumstick wedged between her lips. She looks like a pimple waiting to be popped, and in the blink of an eye the drumstick is gone. I'm not entirely sure if she chews her food anymore.
Long after she leaves I sit at the table with my face unshaven and my tie undone and my shirt untucked, feeling a certain freedom I haven't felt in some time. I'd never imagine feeling free after being fired, but I am. I'm at peace. Or maybe it's the vortex, which is lighting my face much as a refrigerator lights the face of a sleepy stranger making a late night visit. The bookshelf is at an angle, pulled away from the wall, and the spiraling green vortex is brushing my uncombed hair from my forehead much the way my girlfriend once pushed my hair from my forehead, back in better days before she lost her job and gained a chin or three.
The plants that died months ago are stirring in the vortex's whisper, as is the parking ticket that flutters off the table. There's vibration in my pocket, filled with urgency, filled with dread.
I gather my breathing and take a step away from the vortex. Then two. Just breathe. Everything will be okay.
Its pull is as strong as ever with only the bare wall surrounding it. Three steps. Then four. I'm now standing on the other side of the room, opposite the vortex, with my back pressed flat to the living room wall. Four steps away, eyes only seeing green.
As I said before, you can't just step into the vortex.
You have to dive.
The Curious Debt of William T. Bellows
William’s heart tingled with glee as he watched his worst enemy being forced into the back of a police cruiser amid a storm of emergency lights. The night was moonless and the neighborhood dark, save for the intermittent sodium bulbs dotting the usually quiet lane. So the pulsing, silent rhythm of those red and blue police strobes cut through the still shadows like a giant suburb
an discotheque.
One that had just been raided by the cops, William thought happily. There were almost a dozen black and white cars in all. Nearly every officer on duty that evening must have been present, and William could hardly contain his excitement. Chris Rodriguez had just been marched out of his own home in the middle of the night. In handcuffs and with slumped shoulders, the defeated man made his already enormous home look even larger as he was ushered away from it.
When the cruiser door shut behind Rodriguez, symbolically sealing his fate, William felt an almost orgasmic sensation of gratification wash over him. He had awaited this moment for almost two full months: the public shaming of his unscrupulous and morally bankrupt former employer. And it was public indeed. The bedroom lights of Rodriguez’s fellow well-to-do neighbors began to wink to life one at a time along the street. Curious and judgmental faces filled windows, which warmed William’s heart.
The last two months of his life had been pure hell. No, scratch that. The last two years was more like it, ever since Rodriguez’s father Miguel had died. And right now the old man would have died all over again (of heartbreak) if he’d known how quickly his greedy, lecherous son had driven his company into the ground.
William had been the full-time accountant of Cityscape Signs for nineteen years, had in fact been one of the original hires once the company had grown too big to be housed in Miguel’s basement. He and Miguel had been good friends for nearly two decades, until Miguel’s ticker had quit on him. One day William’s boss had been a kindly old man with a slight stutter and a booming laugh, and the next…well, the very next day everything had changed.
Even before the old man was in the ground, Chris assumed the captain’s chair and had fired six of the company’s forty-two employees. And it was all downhill from there. The little snot had treated the company like his own personal debit card his entire life, but with the old man out of the way, Chris Rodriguez threw caution to the wind. He cared about nothing other than himself, and his vanity. The mansion, the summer house, the fancy cars, the plastic surgery: all of it was siphoned out of the company well. It was clearly illegal, and destined to ruin the company. It placed an immense strain on William, as the man who kept the books.
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