Sacrifice

by Edward Lee

  “I’ll have a gin and t—” Alice attempted, but Holly cut her off.

  “Two club sodas, with lime.”

  “Why are we in a bar if we’re not going to drink?” Alice asked the logical question.

  “I’d prefer that you not consume alcohol,” Holly replied.

  “Why not?”

  “Not while you’re on meds. We’re here for lunch. Besides, alcohol is for suckers. It suborns the feminine spirit, taints our lifeforce.”

  Jesus, Alice thought. It didn’t really matter, though; Alice was a very light drinker. She ordered a fried crab sandwich, while Holly decided on a dozen oysters on the half shell.

  “How is your romantic life?” the psychiatrist asked, rather abruptly.

  Alice made to scratch her left leg, then caught herself. “What does that have to do w—”

  “Romance is a mode of socialization. Everyone has attractions. Everyone wants to be loved, and to love someone else. Are you seeing anyone?”

  Seeing. God, what a tepid term. “No,” Alice answered.

  “Because you’re depressed, no doubt—in spite of your repeated denials. You feel unwanted, unattractive, because of your leg.”

  “I do not,” Alice lied.

  “You just lied. You always lie when I ask you something directly relating to the way you feel about yourself.”

  Alice’s brow furrowed. She didn’t like to be called a liar, even when she was lying. But what infuriated her more was Holly’s seemingly effortless ability to detect her fibs.

  “Because,” Holly continued, frowning at the wait for her oysters, “you’re afraid of appearing weak to me. You’re afraid that I will think less of you in the disclosure of your emotions.”

  “That’s a bunch of crap.”

  “No it isn’t; it’s true. You know it’s true. But my point is this: You don’t ever need to lie to me. You’re paying me to help you. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me how you really feel.”

  “I—” Alice faltered. She didn’t even know what she wanted to say, and before she could say anything, their meals arrived.

  “Enjoy your lunch, ladies,” the barkeep said. Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he remarked to Holly, “That’s a pretty blouse.”

  Holly ignored the compliment. When the barkeep was out of earshot, she muttered, “Lecherous, sexist slob.”

  Alice looked astonished. “Holly, I realize you’re a feminist, but don’t you think that’s taking things a bit far? All the guy did was compliment you on your blouse.”

  Holly squirted lemon on her oysters, then applied horseradish. “Don’t be a simpleton. He wasn’t complimenting my blouse. He was informing me that he approves of my not wearing a bra.”

  Alice squinted, and quickly saw that this was true. Holly’s nipples were plain beneath the sheer silky blouse.

  “I’ve always taken exception to bras,” Holly went on, spearing an oyster with a tiny fork, “on the basis of their subjugative societal symbology.”

  Alice salted her fried crab. “Subjugative societal symbology, huh? Are you talking about Kafka? I thought we were talking about bras.”

  “Oh, these are so good,” Holly interjected, swallowing an oyster. Then, back to her remark. “What are breasts in the utmost genderized and exclusive sense? They are a wholly physical and exclusive feature of womanhood. And what is a bra? A societal stricture. A genderized constraint. I know it may sound a bit weird. It’s the symbol, you see? It’s the symbol that bothers me. I will not apply constraints to any aspect of my womanhood.” She daintily forked and consumed another raw oyster. “And it is for the very same reason that I rarely wear panties.”

  “Holly! Why don’t you say it a little louder? Let everyone hear!”

  “Why should I care what other people think? Why should you? Inhibition—in other words, the willful reservation to disclose what we think, how we feel, and, hence, who we are—that’s a constraint, too, isn’t it?”

  Alice slyly gazed down the bar rail to see if anyone had overheard the psychiatrist’s comment. “Yeah, well, just be sure to cross your legs whenever you sit down. Or is that a constraint too?”

  “No, it’s not. Self-disclosure is one thing; exhibitionism is quite another… Mmmmm. Would you like an oyster?”

  “No thank you,” Alice said, eyeing the raw gray puddles of meat. “I only eat scavenging, sediment-dwelling crustaceans when they’re cooked.”

  “Oysters aren’t crustaceans, they’re bivalves,” Holly replied. “And they’re very aphrodisic.”

  “Isn’t that an old wives’ tale?”

  “Oh, no. Oysters contain an optimum, synergistic combination of zinc gluconate, omega-3 fatty acids, as well as certain amino acids, which, when metabolized simultaneously, affect an influx of the specific dopaminergic amines that stimulate the libidinal receptors in the brain.”

  “Holly, you talk like the New England Journal of Medicine.”

  “In other words, they make you horny,” Holly went on, not quite so technically. “You should always eat oysters when you anticipate a passionate encounter.”

  Libidinal receptors notwithstanding, Alice decided she’d stick to fried crabs. “Well, what about you, since we’re on the subject of passionate encounters. How’s your romantic life?”

  “Oh, it’s wonderful,” Holly said rather blandly. “I see lots of men. I always have.”

  The nonchalance of this revelation nearly depressed Alice. Never in her life had she herself seen lots of men. She could not even envision herself in such a social panorama. And, hearing the admission from this articulate— and older—woman, Alice suddenly felt that she’d scarcely lived at all…

  As they proceeded with their meals, Alice noticed that the arguing couple had made amends and were kissing. Another couple came through from the back room, holding hands and whispering to each other.

  “Your greatest romantic obstruction,” Holly picked up, now that she’d devoured the last of her bivalves, “is not relative to your accident. That’s simply a reinforcement.

  What you need to deal with ultimately is your deflated self-concept via the romantic rejection you’ve experienced. There’s a simple technique I’d like you to try.”

  ”A technique?”

  “It’s called rejection-conclusion substitution. Steve, your ex-boyfriend, rejected you quite suddenly and catastrophically, correct?”

  Alice glanced away. “Yes,” she said.

  “Do you hate him?”

  Alice struggled with the query. She didn’t know what to say, so she said what she’d been raised to believe. “I don’t hate anyone.”

  “Bullshit,” Holly came back, quite out of character. “Rule Number One: It’s okay to hate people who’ve hurt you. It’s okay to admit that you’re angered by people who’ve lied to you, deceived you, taken you for granted—used you. There are times, in the realm of the human dynamic, when negative emotions—when hatred—is a healthy and positive thing.”

  Alice idly poked her uneaten lettuce with her fork. Hatred? she pondered. Positive? Healthy?

  “This technique—call it an exercise. It involves your reinvention of the ordeal that led to your most significant sense of rejection. You will be, essentially, rewriting the script of what happened. I’m not referring to the accident—that is irrevocable; I’m referring to what you witnessed that night, before the accident.”

  It was one thing she hated to think about, one thing she never wanted to think about again…

  Like seeing a film, she remembered glimpses, little edits of what she’d seen—

  “Tonight,” Holly went on, “before you go to sleep, I want you to lie down on your bed and close your eyes and think back to that night. I want you to force yourself to replay everything you witnessed.”

  “I don’t think I can.”

  “You must. You must be strong. You must acknowledge what you experienced. It’s the only way to get rid of it.”

  Alice frowned. “How can ‘replaying’ something
like that help me get rid of it?”

  “Simple. In your mind, you change the ending. You create a fantasy ending. And, then, in your mind, you kill Steve.”

  Alice gaped at Holly.

  “You heard me. You will kill him. It doesn’t matter how. You can fantasize about killing him with a gun, a knife, your bare hands, whatever. You can kill him with a toilet tank cover, for that matter.”

  Alice still couldn’t quite grasp this. “You’re telling me to fantasize about murdering Steve?”

  “That’s right. It won’t be easy at first, as I’ve said. But if you practice the technique every night, after a period of time, it will work.”

  “How?”

  “By killing Steve in the fantasy, you’ll also be killing the major exponent of the rejection element in your subconscious mind. Give it a chance.”

  “I’m afraid to,” she whispered, and immediately regretted it. She could imagine nothing that could sound more insecure, more weak. But then she remembered what Holly had said about weakness.

  “I know you’re afraid,” Holly replied, her voice now dropping some of its cool edge. “It’s normal to be afraid. But you have to do it, Alice; it’s a crucial first step.”

  Alice’s leg began to itch.

  — | — | —

  4

  It’s beautiful, you’re thinking as you drive.

  The snow.

  You have to drive carefully, of course: These back roads get tricky. But the snow is just so beautiful, the gentle white swarm ahead of you, the way each flake turns to liquid on the windshield’s warm glass.

  You’re so in love—that’s beautiful, too. He wants to marry you. No, he hasn’t gotten the ring yet, but that doesn’t matter. You know he’s sincere. You know he loves you. That’s all that matters.

  That’s all you’ve ever wanted—to be loved…

  The road swarms on in the headlights. The heater drones. Your mind floats away in all the wonderful things you foresee, your life with him, your future together. Your success as a lawyer never really impressed you—for so long, that was all you had. But his love for you has changed all that; it’s put a beautiful meaning in your life far beyond litigation, interrogatives, and jury instructions. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t make much money. (Frankly, you’re surprised that he gets by at all.) But money’s no problem; you make plenty of that. In your mind’s eye you can see it all now: a nice house with its own little yard, the swing set out back, children…

  Everything—

  Not much farther now. Soon you’re pulling into the small apartment complex, where the high, white parking lot lights diffuse the snowfall: a surreal storm of astral ashes, a dreamstorm.

  You’ve brought him a gift. A gold tie bar with eight diamonds in it, for tonight is the eight-month anniversary of your first date with him. You’re so happy your heart is racing. When you get out you feel warm in the bitter air; innumerable snowflakes melt on your cheeks and fleck your blond hair. You take the steps up two at a time.

  You haven’t told him you’d be coming. Earlier you said you’d have to work late at the office, preparing for a big aviation case. You want the gift, and the moment, to be a complete surprise. So you take extreme care in unlocking the door with the key he’s given you. He mustn’t hear you. That would spoil the surprise, wouldn’t it?

  It seems to take forever to open the door. When you’re inside you have to catch your breath. Your excitement leaves you winded, all the power and intensity of your love, and the fact—the plain, joyous, untainted truth— that he loves you, too. You even notice that your hands are shaking when you take the boxed and wrapped tie bar out of your purse. That’s how happy you are. That’s how in love you are: to the point of trembling.

  Very quietly you step into the little foyer. The apartment is silent. Perhaps he isn’t home. Only one light on in the living room. You peer down the hall, though, and notice the bedroom door slightly open, and light glowing in the crack. He must be reading, or taking a nap, for the silence is so complete. You can hear your eyes blink, you can hear your own pulse.

  You glide down the hall on your own footfalls. The door seems to move toward you. But…suddenly something’s wrong, or at least it feels that way. What is it? Something about the silence, the feel of the apartment, and your happiness. I’m just being paranoid, you quickly assure yourself. I’m just being insecure. Because no logic can define this odd, dislocated suspicion…

  Yes, insecurity. You’d always felt insecure about yourself, for as long as you could remember. But that’s all behind you now, now that you’re in love. Steve’s love cured it all, forever.

  And then the odd silence breaks.

  You hear: “Yeah.”

  Steve’s voice. He must be on the phone.

  Again: “Yeah. There.”

  And: “Like that.”

  You push open the door. You peek in…

  At first you deny what you see. You feel fused in space, in time, in infinity. Your eyelids feel peeled off—

  He’s naked. He’s kneeling behind her. Her, yes—he’s kneeling behind another woman, a lean, large-breasted woman with short, ratty blond hair. She, too, is naked, save for a pair of red high-heeled shoes. Their backs are facing you—or, in the woman’s case, her backside. The room reeks of marijuana.

  “Yeah, baby. Just like that.”

  You’re disgusted, horrified. But you can’t move. It’s as though spirit hands are holding you, forcing you to look on. You see the blonde’s hand reaching up from behind, caressing his testicles as he slowly, meticulously, moves in and out of her. Just as slowly, the blonde’s heavy breasts sway back and forth, back and forth…

  The memory unreels as a smeared dream, yet gritty in diced glimpses of flesh. You notice pinpoint details, clinically explicit: muscles and tendons flexing beneath skin, beads of sweat, like ingots of molten metal, crawling down Steve’s back, the faintest blue vein on the side of the blonde’s right breast.

  Their voices sound grainy, like old radio dialogue.

  “Harder, harder…”

  “Oh, baby, I’m about to—”

  “Don’t you dare! Not yet!”

  A tinny chuckle. “What would your girlfriend think if she could see this?”

  Another chuckle, darker. “She probably wouldn’t even know what was going on!”

  “If she’s such a dull fuck, why don’t you dump her?”

  “You kidding? She makes two hundred grand a year!”

  More glimpses, more smears.

  That’s when he notices you standing there, looking at them. “Oh, shit,” he murmurs, peering over his shoulder. The blonde, going suddenly lax, looks over, too. “Oh, my God. Is that—”

  Steve steps back, withdraws from her. You even notice now that he’s not wearing a condom. Like coming to after fainting, your paralysis begins to break. Your whole body is shaking. Tears are pouring down your face.

  His anniversary gift falls from your fingers to the floor. You’re turning, walking away very quickly back down the hall. For some reason you expect him to follow you, offer some petty excuse, anything but it never happens. After all, what can he say?

  The shock wears off when you get back outside, shock that is replaced by the most awesome pain you’ve ever felt, pain like a garden trowel digging out your heart.

  But then you’re struggling to remember, and eventually you do. This isn’t happening. It’s a memory that you’ve forced yourself to recall. You’re standing next to your car, the snow stinging your face, the bitter cold crushing you, and you realize why you’re doing this. Holly told you to do this, to remember everything and to—

  Change the ending.

  That’s what Holly told you to do. To change the ending of the memory. To—

  Kill him.

  You must go back up into the apartment and you must kill him, and in doing so you will kill the symbol of what he is to your subconscious mind. That’s what Holly told you to do, and that’s what you will do.

/>   This is just a fantasy; it’s like a dream you can control, so there’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re walking back up the stairs; you’re re-entering the apartment and going back down the hall toward the bedroom. The fantasy has put a gun in your hand. I’m going to go back in there, and I’m going to kill him with this gun, you’ve ordered yourself. Do it! Do it! Kill him!

  The pain in your heart is still there, though. No matter how hard you try to block it out, it’s still there, gnawing at you: the knowledge of how completely he deceived you, how he lied to you and used you. It hurts so much. Nor can you escape the metaphor—that his deceit has torn your heart out and left a raw, empty hole…

  Kill him. Complete the exercise, and do what Holly told you. Kill him. Kill the pain. Kill him.

  You raise the gun.

  You push open the bedroom door—

  God Almighty…

  —and go right back into shock.

  There’s blood…everywhere. The bed is sodden with it, the carpet drenched. The blonde has been eviscerated, her entrails flung this way and that. Her eyes have ruptured in their sockets. Her skin has peeled off in sheets.

  But where’s…

  Your eyes track across the scarlet room. You see him lying in the darkened corner. He seems to be shaking, like a large piece of meat in a small dog’s maw. His blood is flying…

  And there’s something else. Leaning intently over him.

  Not so much a person as a shape, something vague and half-formed, chunks of congealed shadow, oddments of darkness pieced roughly together. The thing could not be of flesh, not of any substance you can conceive, yet it is tearing Steve apart as effectively as a machine.

  Something has gone terribly wrong. This is not part of the exercise. This is supposed to be a fantasy, and a person can control a fantasy.

  So why can’t you control this?

  Maybe it’s not a fantasy, you consider in the midst of this madness you’re witnessing. Maybe it’s real…

  But it can’t be, it can’t be real. You initiated this yourself because Holly told you to. Holly told you it would help make the pain go away. This simply can’t be real! you bellow at yourself.