Wake the Wicked

by Christian Baloga

  "Jay!" My voice is weak. It trails off, getting trapped somewhere within the wolf's thick black fur. "Jay, plea—" But before I can finish, the wolf interrupts with a thunderous snarl and its mighty jaws snap my shirt. With a single jerk of the jaw, my chest is bare.

  I try again to move back with as much strength as I can muster. I barely flinch. Its big head jerks to the side and latches onto my belt buckle. My vision blanks and the next thing I realize is the wolf tearing into my flesh, tearing away at my cheeks, my abdomen, and my genitals.

  I roll off the bed and thump to the floor. Startled, I open my eyes. Bright light shines through the window behind the bed and onto my naked body. Where am I? Jay grumbles next to me, asleep on the bed. I look down. Scratches line my body like a drag race track. These aren't from a wolf; these are from human nails.

  I look to the window. It's still intact. No wolf broke through it. It was a dream. I lift myself up and look around the room. Clothes scatter the brown-carpeted floor, reminding me of what black bears do to the garbage the night before trash day.

  I gather my jeans and shirt, socks and shoes. Where are my boxers? I lift the bed cover. Jay's naked body rolls over toward me, still asleep. Tiny amounts of dried blood stain the white cotton sheets. My heart races. I try to tap into my memory, but everything's a blur. Forget about my boxers. I drop the red-blotched sheets, throw on my clothes, and rush out the front door.

  On the way home, I begin remembering parts from last night. A deep feeling of anxiety tears away at my belly, as if it were trying to escape. While my phone charges, I begin a text message to Jay: “hey, I don't know what all happened last night, but I know I won't be seeing u again. Please don't text or call me ever again. Ur a fucking asshole. Rot in hell.”

  Before I press send, I reread it. I can't send it, not like this. He'll destroy me. I don't want to be the next Faith. I delete the message and begin a rewrite: “Sorry for leaving before u got up but I promised my mom I'd help her garden today. I also want to talk to u about us . . . I don't feel I'm the right one 4 u. I'm not Mr. Right and it's not going to work :(.”

  I read it over, out loud this time. Perfect. It sounds like I think I'm not good enough for him. He'll eat it right up.

  A couple minutes later, he replies in one long text: “It don’t bother me. Anyway, you look very unhealthy, like, anorexic skinny, and that really turned my stomach to see. I can’t be with someone like that and if you think you broke up with me hun you are dead wrong. You had me, you lost me, get over it. Enjoy your life. I have more friends than I can ever need. And hun, I CAN have any boy I want so that’s not a worry. It’s me that doesn't just want any boy, I want THE PERFECT BOY. THE PERFECT MATCH FOR ME, HE’S OUT THERE. And who knows, I have plenty of people who care about me. So don't give me the bullshit. Well, ciao, Papi.”

  * * *

  Sixteen moths later, despite any nagging insecurities, I try dating again. His name is Brett. I met him online and we've been talking for a few months. He's beautiful. Gorgeous body. Razor sharp jaw line. Tahitian tan. And he seems interested in me, but I'm cautious. I even had flashbacks this morning about Jay telling me how I'm "anorexic skinny," and how I turn his stomach. Today I wear a thick, long sleeve button up over a white tee. It makes me look much bigger than I am.

  I sit across from Brett, at a tree trunk table. I cup my hands around a hot mug of Sumatra coffee and slurp. The earthy aroma quiets my nerves. “It’s my first time here. I’ve never seen a place like it,” I say, looking around at a faux tree in the corner of the café with a clan of brightly colored parrots perching on every branch.

  “You know what I love most about it?” Brett points up.

  I raise my head to find a river of white mist snaking over a dark blue and purple ceiling. In a strange way, it feels as though it were closing in on me, like the river was getting thicker, like it was lowering inch by inch, and soon enough, it might drown me.

  I snap out of it the moment I hear a chime from the front door opening. I turn. A flaming mob enters, fashioned in tight designer tees, ripped blue jeans, and shiny black shoes. Anxiety takes hold of my body as I lock eyes with the guy in front—Jay. He smirks at me. I look away.

  "You okay? It looks like you saw a ghost," Brett asks in a quieted tone.

  We need to leave! No, we can’t. We got here a couple minutes ago. I chug the coffee until there’s no more. It burns my tongue. I don't care. Jay walks toward me, smirking like the Cheshire cat. I look the other way, and moments later I feel his arms around me.

  "Hey, Chase," Jay says in a singsong voice and presses his fat wet lips against my cheek.

  Pretending to be disgusted, I jerk forward until he releases. He struts to his table; the group follows closely.

  "You know him?" Brett asks, sipping his frappe from a straw.

  "I sort of dated him a while ago. He's a jerk."

  "He may be a jerk, but he's borderline celebrity. I see him sometimes at Trex bar. He's always got a gang of dudes around him. So why'd he date you?" He immediately covers his mouth and tries to correct himself. "I, I mean, he's super, super popular. What I mean is, he usually goes for a different type of guy. The muscular, tan type."

  I hear Jay and his table giggle, and from the corner of my eye see them looking my way. I tighten up. I hear a few more light giggles, then our waitress leans over my side of the table and places a tray down. On top of a layer of kale rests dozens of cut lemons. Jay's table breaks out in a chorus of laughter.

  "Oh, I didn’t order this," I tell the waitress.

  "He . . .” She points to my left. “Told me to surprise you with a plate of lemons."

  I turn and see Jay waving. He yells over, "Aren't you going to thank me? I thought you'd like a bunch o’ lemons, since you're so sour!"

  I feel like I'm going to throw up. I grab my fork and stab the lemon-topped plate. I stab it again, again, again, pretending it's Jay's fucking face.

  Brett chuckles. How can he think this is amusing? I feel the temperature of my face rise and turn red from a dangerous mixture of anger and embarrassment. And like two dams, my eyelids hold back accumulating tears.

  "You okay? It's a joke, man. Calm down." Brett looks embarrassed, but not for me; for himself.

  With my eyes about to burst, I cover my face with my left hand to hide my weakness. Why's Jay like this to me? Does he like me? If he does, he’s got a strange way of showing affection. I've been nothing but kind; nothing but kind to him!

  I slide my chair back and, without giving Brett an explanation, leave the café with a tight fist over a set of keys in my pocket. I dig the jagged edges over my palm as if carving a jack-o-lantern. The physical pain releases the anger boiling inside me.

  * * *

  It's been three years since I mustered enough self-confidence to date. And it was with a guy, what's his name? Brian. No. Brett; yes, Brett. And four years since my first-ever-date with Jay, the asshole who drugged me, fucked me, and ordered me lemons. I think about him often, though. The truth is, I think about him every day. I know, what mad attraction do I have with the lug? He's gorgeous. Is it what makes him irresistible? There're tons of beautiful guys out there, though. He's terrible, yet I can't get my mind off him.

  And right after the lemon incident, I became the next Faith, the one dragooned into deleting my virtual identity. I became a recluse. I hid from crowds, distanced myself from friends and family.

  I want to pick his brain apart, to find out what his problem is with me. I'd die to know.

  A contentious crowd in the bar area of Trex starts to get on my nerves and I figure I should head over to the other side, to the dance floor. Before I do, I take another shot of tequila. I think it's my sixth, or maybe fifth one, tonight, thanks to a dude who looks like a pig wrapped in spandex. I give the guy a quick grin and, whether he realizes it or not, it's all I'm giving him tonight, for sure.

  Sporadic combinations of bright lights flickering, fog spraying down from the ceiling, and green lasers keep
me totally off balance. The thunderous boom of music jolts my heart off beat. Humid, smoky air fills my lungs. I pump my fists in spasmodic fits of excitement. I don't know any of the people grinding next to me, but I feel like we're all best friends.

  I feel sweaty hands on my shoulders and somebody yells over the music into my right ear, "Chase, how's it going?"

  A guy wearing only a red thong and flip-flops straddles me from behind. I relax my dancing arms and turn my head, getting a whiff of cologne. It smells familiar. My eyes stammer back and forth, up and down, and although I'm having a difficult time focusing, I'm able to see a head of brown spiky hair and a wide display of gleaming teeth, like a wild animal.

  "Do good," I stutter, making brief contact with a set of hazel eyes. They, too, are eerily familiar. I twist around again to get a better look and begin to fall over. I'm dancing with Jay.

  He catches me right before I stumble to the ground. My belly flutters as my face stumbles into his wet chest. He takes my hand and leads me out through the thick crowd and into the parking lot. He lights a cigarette, then offers me one, but I decline.

  "So what is up? Been sooo long," I say, leaning against a brick wall. The cool breeze over my sweaty hair and brow feels great.

  "Too long," he says, taking a long drag. "Well, I'm rated the top stylist in Virginia. But I'm sure you already know. It's been all over."

  I nod like I know what he's talking about.

  "Yeah, and finally finished school. Took a lot longer than planned, but I'm busy as hell nowadays. I only work part-time at Trex as a bartender now. It's good money. Why haven't I seen you in so long? I miss you."

  Did I hear him right? Jay misses me? He's changed. Or maybe he did like me all along. He didn't know how to express it in a way one should when courting. Or maybe it's my fault for expecting something more out of a person. After all, who am I to change someone?

  "I, I've been busy, too. Going to college now tah get my associates in—"

  "I'm sorry about what happened between us. I really am,” Jay interrupts me. “I wish I could go back and change things," he says, and I believe him. "It was a total mistake. I shouldn't have listened to my sister about all the stuff you said about me. I forgive you, though."

  "Your sister? What stuff?"

  "She told me 'bout how you tried to get me all mad at her and kept calling her and telling her I'm talking shit on her. I forgive you, though. It was a long time ago."

  I tilt my head, confused. "I, uh, didn't know you had a sis. And it wasn't me who talked shit." Does he even remember me? Yes, he remembers my name, but he's mistaking me for somebody else. Maybe one of his other dates? I can't even imagine how many there must be by now.

  "It's fine, really it is. It was a long, long time ago," Jay says, scraping what's left of the cigarette onto the sidewalk. "Cross my heart, I don't care no more."

  I still can't figure out what he's talking about, but now is my chance to ask him why he was so mean to me. I have him right here.

  No. I can’t ask him now, not yet. I feel his eyes on me. The enduring stare makes my skin crawl. I look away.

  "How about this. Let's you and I go back to your place. I'll drive and take you back in the morn'. And you can make it up to me. Sound good?" he asks.

  No, I'm not in any shape to drive, but I'm not going to get a chance like this one again.

  "Yeah, sounds great," I say. Jay gives me another grin. It feels genuine and warm, like nothing I've experienced from him before.

  I turn up the music to drown out Jay blabbing on and on about how he's got the most visited YOLO channel and how he signed a modeling contract and how his first photo shoot is in a few days. I need to focus on the road.

  As we approach a mailbox with the number 33 in big white characters, I stop the car in the middle of the road. "Take off your flips flops and your thong," I demand. Jay gives me a set of keys and his cell. He seems to like this idea because he's smiling like a fool. He hands the sweaty things over to me and I toss them out the open window. He chuckles, but doesn't say a word.

  I park my car at the top of the driveway. The music silences, and all I can hear now is a ringing in my ears. With only the moonlight to guide us, we walk over the stone pathway to the front door. A distant chorus of wolves breaks through the ringing silence. It brings me back to the night I stayed here. In the darkness, I see an image of a red-eyed wolf tearing into my skin like a rawhide dog bone. I grit my teeth in anger.

  I unlock the front door and flick on the lights. I nudge him inside, lock the door behind me, and guide him to the bedroom. Clothes still scatter the brown floor, as they had years ago. Nothing changed. People don't change.

  Jay throws himself down on the bed, face up. I take a handful of white tank tops from a pile of clothes near the door and lay them out on the bed. I take one, wrap it around his wrist, and fasten him to the wooden bed poles. I do the same with his other arm and two legs. Then, I look at the dresser. The green and purple masks are still on display. I fasten the green one over Jay's head so only his glossy hazel eyes show. I cover my face with the purple one.

  "Looking good," I say, checking myself out in a mirror above the dresser. I pull out his phone from my pocket and start the YOLO app. I set it on his dresser, making sure the camera faces Jay. Within moments, I hear the tone of people logging into the broadcast.

  "Be back in a minute," I say, caressing Jay's patchy haired chest with my hand. I leave the room and head to the kitchen to scour the fridge. I nearly drop dead when I see a bowl of lemons. I bring them out and set them on the counter. I take off a meat cleaver fastened to a magnetic holder on the wall and take it to the bedroom. I’m careful not to trip over any of the clothes.

  I set the meat cleaver and bowl of lemons down on the bed next to his chest. Jay looks down. "What’s that for? You making me a drink?"

  I respond only after I switch on classic rock music on a player I found on his dresser. "I'm feeling the beat, Jay. You gonna dance with me?"

  He nods. The repetitive tone from Jay's phone catches my attention. "Wow, 274 viewers? Guess you’re as popular as you say you are.” I position my face in front of the camera. "I want more viewers. I want to see 500 of you watching. Can you do it for Jay? Will you do it for this asshole?"

  I sit next to him, place a lemon on his chest, and take hold of the meat cleaver. His smile inverts. Patches of goose bumps raise over his tan skin.

  "Hun, is there something wrong?" I say. And by using his chest as a cutting board, I slice through the lemon, splitting it in two. Blood oozes from the cut and mixes with the lemon. Jay screams.

  Moments later, I hear a blast of tones from viewers tuning in. "More!" I yell to the phone. "I wanna see at least 500 of you losers watching!"

  I turn back to Jay. With a single hand, I squeeze the lemon slice in those glossy hazel eyes and I don't finish until it drips dry. His head shakes like a wet dog trying to dry off from a rainstorm. I take the cleaver and hack away at his handsome hair. "Don't move or I’ll cut you," I say to him, but he squirms anyway. I slice away at his scalp. The only thing preventing me from cutting deeper is his skull. I never realized how white bones are until now. I tear away at the hairy flesh from his scalp and tighten my fist around the other half of lemon. It drips onto his bare skull. It mixes with veiny tissue and blood. I swear I can hear it sizzle.

  I wipe the wet blade on the satin sheets as if to cleanse it and begin another round of play. I'm surprised at how clean the cleaver slices through his meat. I cut his chest and stomach in no particular pattern. Bleeding doesn't start at once like I imagined it would; it oozes out, slowly at first.

  I prepare a couple more lemons and drench the wounds. Jay cries like a yowling wolf. Ah, and the wolves, I can hear them outside right now.

  I take half a lemon in my left hand and pry Jay's mouth open with the meat cleaver. "Don't bite down," I warn him.

  I spread his jaw wide enough to reach my hand down and, with my nails, I tear away at his esoph
agus. His head twists sideways, body thrusting like a wriggling worm. I clench the lemon from inside him, which releases a gush of lemony acid.

  At this point, Jay's eyes flicker like waning tea lights, each breath shallower than the last. He's losing consciousness. I push the lemon farther down his throat with my fingers and make a fist.

  "I think you're right, Jay, I am a little sour." I jerk my fist out and move my blood-drenched hand over the ashtray next to the bed. I light a half smoked cigarette and take a deep drag. I lean in close to Jay, hold his nose, and blow a slow breath of smoke into his bleeding mouth.

  "Not so attractive now, hun?" I say loud enough that the viewers can hear.

  I peel open his right eye and touch the lit end of the cigarette to his retina. I let go of the cigarette and cover his upper eyelid over the burning end.

  I walk over to the phone and check the viewer stats: 4,087. Jay's so popular. I wave at the camera. "Finito," I say, and log off.

  END

  The Bough Watchtower

  "Bridge," Harold said, gesturing her into his office with his thick index finger worming through the air.

  Bridget's stomach twisted into a tight knot. Please tell me I got the position. Please, I can't handle anymore bad news, she thought. Her fingers nervously snapped off the cap of a pen. It landed somewhere on the other side of her cubicle.

  She wheeled the chair away from her desk and brushed off the white dog fur strewn over her purple blouse and black jean. She stood and followed Harold. Her eyes fixed on him as he strutted down the row of cubicles like he wore a jeweled crown. His shoulders were as wide as his hips and swayed back and forth as he walked. It was like trailing a black bear; well, if black bears had finely trimmed beards and sculpted eyebrows.

  Bridget's feet slid inside her heels. It made a vulgar skidding noise, reminding her of the sound of walking in wet flip-flops.

  Harold's office was a stone's throw away, right down the hall to the right, secluded from the main area where Bridget and the rest of her co-workers drudged through the day-to-day grind. He held the door for her as she entered. The strong morning light blasted into her eyes like two thumbs digging inward.