by Glass Eileen
“O-okay. Do it.” Deep breath. “Exactly where I showed you. Don't miss. Whatever you do, don't miss.”
“I…don't…understand…” I look at the shard, then at him. He can't be serious. “Rex, I'm not going to stab you. Why…why would you…?”
“You have to, Arrie.” I don't like how he says my name. Soft and sad like he’s mourning me. “This thing. It and I are mixing. And it's fucking confusing as all hell. I don’t know how much of this thing is going to survive. Or how much of me is going to survive. And this thing wants you dead.”
“Why?”
“Just…just hate. It hates everyone. It hates me most of all.” As if to add meaning to his words, the snarling silent wolf makes another snap at me. “When we work together…like fighting Edith…the mixing happens faster. But here. God, Arrie, it's like having my head cleaved in two. I think…I think this thing is stronger than me. You have to kill me quick before I…nevermind. Just trust me, this is best.”
I thumb the edge of the shard, doubting it’s ability to cut. I will have to drive it in with a lot of force to do what he asks, probably cutting myself in the process. I tug my sleeves over my hand and test my ability to wield the primitive utility.
I will have to get close. Close enough to hug him if I’m going to stick him with this. (Am I really considering this?) I can’t count on the element of surprise. Rex has control of the eyes, sure, but can it hear? Smell? Feel? Blind or not, I don't think it will have a problem taking my head off.
This is considered by the survival instinct residing within me, a part of myself I’ve only known for as long as I’ve known Edith herself. The rest of me doesn't have anything to think about.
“I'm not going to stab you, Rex. I can't do that.”
“We don't have time to argue about it. You have to. I'm…collapsing. Quickly. This thing is stronger than me. It'll take over in minutes, I can't stop it.”
I understand the logic, but somehow, the connection between reason and action isn't made.
I’m in a zombie movie, I think, remembering myself munching popcorn while watching a bunch of idiots deliberate over what to do their zombie-bitten friend. Gee, I wonder happens next, I had muttered, then checked my phone.
Yeah. This is like that. Only I’m the idiot now.
“I can't.” I fumble with the shard, stare at it like it’s a strange, foreign object I can’t comprehend.
“You. Must.”
I wince. That’s the same voice he used on Edith, that inhuman growl.
He lurches toward me. One step. And my circle of safety has a good chunk taken out of it. I get to my feet. I have to do something. I can't fight him. I can't kill him. Another way, another way… “I can't, I can't…”
“Arrie.” His voice is the inhuman growl, but he’s my Rex, I can hear it in the reluctance of the word.
I know the instant when Rex finally starts to slip away. The snapping dog on a chain becomes a confident predator, the wolf settling over Rex’s shoulders, facing me fully with that toothy grin.
“Now, Arrie.” The expression of the wolf doesn't change, but Rex hooks his hands in the cell bars like he’s holding on for an earthquake. His eyes squeeze tightly shut. “Do it. This is your last chance! Do it! What are you waiting for?”
“I…I…”
The shard in my hands shakes so badly, I’m more likely to cut myself with it than anything else. And he wants me to do what? I can barely think it.
I don't let go of the glass, but I do try to show open palms, the universal sign for please, oh god, don't kill me.
“I…I didn't do anything,” I tell it. My grip on the shard shifts to be more purposeful. I don't know the proper way to hold a knife, but my fingers find grooves to hold it firmly. I clutch it in front with the same nervous death grip Edith had held her necklace with. Yes, she had been scared.
But Edith is evil. Edith tortured Rex. She caused all this, she deserved to be scared.
“I…I'm nice. I'm good,” I say.
It steps forward, a clumsy lurch, and it would take another if not for Rex’s grip on the bars. It pulls, trying to free itself. The grip stays.
“Please,” I say. “I don't want to hurt you. I—I'm Arrie. I…”
Tugs, frowns, jerks on the arm like a leashed beast.
I flex my fingers in the sharp grooves of the glass. I check and re-check to make sure the pointy end is pointed outward, to assure myself that this inexplicable pain in my chest is an emotion and not the glass stabbing into me.
I don’t have long. Because the fingers of his hand jump off the bars, then wrap back around, Rex’s control slipping away with every precious second. The wolf doesn’t bother to fight the grip. He just waits.
There’s a big black tongue visible behind the jaws. It curls like he’s tasting me already.
If I lunge now, maybe Rex can keep the demon from killing me. Maybe.
His jugular pulses. Yes, I could cut him there. He would be expecting that, though. I would have better luck going for his gut. Bigger target, farther from the jaws and fangs. The injury might incapacitate him enough that I could land a killing blow to the neck after.
My imagination feeds me the image. Rex bleeding and screaming on the floor, blood all over my hands, watching him roll around and waiting for the right moment to spring forward and drive this jagged shard into his neck.
The hand drops to his side. I clutch the knife so hard it hurts. But that image, of Rex covered in blood and screaming…it reaffirms what I already know.
He’s about to lunge. My hold on the shard is weak, my courage thin.
“I won't do it.” The words are for myself, a spoken thought. The truth pries my fingers from the glass. The shard slips away. “I won’t do it!” I shout.
The wolf pauses. Tilts its head to one side and Rex's head does the same. Pulls its lips back to growl and Rex does the same.
There’s no mercy in those red eyes. My appeal of kindness, my show of faith, has damned me. But I’ve made my decision. I sit back on my heels and wait. It will be faster than the chair. God, let it be faster than the chair.
I bow my head. I don't want to see the end. Rex steps forward. And I suppose I should think about my family, think about my unlived life, lament my goldfish at home. Another step, my circle of safety gone, and I only feel empty.
I hear one last vicious snarl and look up to see the jaws open, the fangs poised to enclose over my head, the long tongue dripping ink and smoke. His throat is a void, no ribbons or lines there, just darkness. This thing shares it’s eyes with Rex, but it’s belly is all its own. A brief insight warns me that I’ll burn alive in there. I fumble to pick up the shard, even knowing that it’s too late.
Then the image dissolves.
I am blinking. Coming out a daze. And the wolf head is already reforming, but it doesn't look angry or malicious. It is…just a wolf. It extends towards me, sniffs, and I try not to flinch. It pauses.
It is just…just there. And I didn't know what to make of that.
Slowly, it recedes, sinking deep into Rex’s skin, becoming only the living the tattoo, lines leaving his face open. The ears stay though.
“Ahhrrie,” he says, dragging it out like he’s tasting the name. And then he looks at his hand as if he'd never seen it before.
He says my name again, drawing it out like he’s practicing the syllables. And again like a breathy sigh. “Ahhrrie.”
“Hey,” I respond, a hoarse croak, and he tilts his head, his ears perking forward.
I peel myself from the wall, rediscovering each limb and digit as if I really had flattened myself, and I pop back into a 3d realm of existence. Fingers that wiggle, lungs that expand, a bladder that aches with need but it’ll have to wait. I’m here, I’m real.
And so is he, watching me move and stretch, his tilt adjusting now and then. His lips and brow are slack, expressionless. But his eyes are intense, his ears perked forward. Wisps float across his skin, sometimes like ink, sometimes peeli
ng up to evaporate into smoke. They form symbols across his shoulders, black on pale pink flesh.
His eyes are so alien. So monstrous that I can’t meet them fully, always glancing away. But I’m his, whatever he is. I’ve surrendered to him, to my fate. No positive thinking and desperate hoping here. I give up.
So I regard him with some sadness. There’s no discernible softness in those eyes, and I make no assumptions that Edith could have possibly summoned a kind creature from the darkness.
“What are you?” I whisper.
“Ahrrie.”
“Yes, that’s me.” And I give him a small smile, just a quick one. Because I’m a funny guy, I add in a haunted whisper, “What can I do for you?”
His ears twitch backwards slightly, then front again. The way he tilts his head…
Ah. I get it. He doesn’t know what to make of me. We’re asking each other the same questions.
I watch the tendrils flow down his throat, to his nipple, swimming a circle there. The ink is hypnotic.
“My name is Arrie.” I answer his questions. “I’m yours, for whatever that’s worth.”
The lines jitter. Or maybe he shudders. I don’t know because I’m lost in the ink, watching it swim over him. It coats his arms the thickest, then seems to part and run down his sides, leaving the planes of his chest exposed except for the occasional trail and small symbol. His back is also covered, though I can’t see it. Like he’s wearing the shadow of a cloak, I think, dragging my eyes to his mostly uncovered face. That’s exactly what it is. A cloak of darkness.
It’s easier to think of it like that. To think of it the other way…to imagine that the ink is a knot of black worms writhing inside him, leaking out his orifices and crawling down over his skin…
Turns my stomach. And it’s not very accurate. Worms are gross. He is gorgeous. More than I care to admit, and the ears atop his head are a source of shameless fascination for me. I thought my initial attraction to Rex’s red hair was an exception. My type is tall dark and handsome. But, oh, those inky shapes atop his head have changed my type completely. Red and black is my thing now.
I catch sight of my fingers reaching up for those ears, but I don’t register the hand as mine until he flinches and jerks away before I can touch.
I pull my hand back. I hadn’t meant to do that.
“Sorry, sorry,” I say, ducking my head, certain I’m about to lose it. Beautiful, yes, but deadly. And evil, though I haven’t completely decided about that. Edith is evil. He is…dark? Dangerous works for now.
But he doesn’t growl, his teeth don’t bare in the way he had done for Edith.
Nor does he look kind.
He still hasn’t decided about me.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” I turn my palms up, spread my hands to indicate peace. Don’t dare meet his eyes. “Never again, I promise.” I don’t know how it happened the first time.
He stares at me forever, his expression hard to read. The ears, however, bend slightly back, so I focus on drawing long, calm breaths. Animals can sense fear, and I suspect he might change his mind about eating me if I start crying and wailing now.
“I love you, Rex,” I whisper. I’m speaking as a friend, but there’s a connection between us I can’t analyze. “In case you’re in there, in case you can hear me…I don’t blame you for anything.” Because I’m already dead, essentially. The moment I fell down the stairs and landed in a heap at the door, the old hag sashaying down after me, I had an expiration date. “I’m sorry this happened to you. I tried so hard to save you.” My chest tightens, my heart seizes.
I can’t say anymore, or I will start to wail and cry and this thing will chomp me with glee. The knot I’ve been holding down wants to explode from my gut. Anger, panic, despair.
There’s no place for it here. I focus. The placid void isn’t so far off. If I can just breathe, I’ll find it, I’ll draw it over me. I can’t die now because I don’t want to leave him like this, trapped in a monster, forced to watch as it chews on my mangled corpse. Forced to taste the flesh off my bones.
I get an image of him chewing on me, squatting like the beast, red everywhere and myself staring at the ceiling in a silent scream.
Ah, there’s the placid calm.
I sigh and straighten, like I’m slipping into a relaxing bath. My sense of self exists just outside of my body when I’m like this. I don’t have to worry about that image.
He is beautiful. I can appreciate that again. Gorgeous and deadly. A languid line slips down to his navel, forms an upside down question mark, and gradually drips below his waist.
Do they react to his emotions? I wonder. Could he possibly feel Rex’s like for me?
That would be…
Terrifying and…
Exciting.
His ears go all the way back, his upper lips curl to show his teeth. Back off, that expression says, and I read it loud and clear, flattening myself against the wall. Giving him his space.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me, first touching him, then that thought. I must be the village idiot, my fear of this monster turning to fascination and (I can’t deny it) lust. Always I’ve believed magic is real, but it’s a quiet magic. Nothing so enthralling and splendid as him.
A shiver, the bad kind, tickles my scalp and runs down my shoulders. This is why Edith does it, how she got like this. The possibilities outweigh the costs in her mind, and who can blame her?
You can, I sternly remind myself. Power like this isn’t a toy.
He turns, slowly, his eyes flashing to the glass on the floor and back to me.
“I won’t hurt you,” I say, still speaking in a whisper. Like I don’t want to frighten him, but that’s a stupid notion. The way he looked at me though, eyes going wide when I reached for those silken ears. I startled him.
He pulls his lips back in a complete snarl before he turns and his expression goes slack. You better not, I read. Fair enough. We’re at a truce then, him and me, but he was never in danger in the first place. What is he afraid of?
The chair. As if it called out to us, we look at it at the same time, flinch away at the same time too.
The creature—for he isn’t Rex and he moves like he’s pulling on unfamiliar tendons—goes to the corner and curls up between the wall and the toilet, hiding. Watches me awhile, his eye alert over his shoulder as he starts to rock slightly. I want to comfort him, but this fool can learn. Leave it alone, says my observer, the last whisper from that entity before it blends and fades.
I’m whole again. I survived.
And so did he. It remains to be seen how I feel about that. For now, I smooth my hands over my skirt, let myself grow accustomed to feeling whole and alive, let the problem of escape come back to the edge of my thoughts, a problem that can’t be solved but must be addressed at some point.
With self and body intact, there’s urgency I can’t ignore any longer. I have to pee.
Is he still in there? Does he watch, helpless and paralyzed?
I should just do it. Let him see, let him freak out quietly in there, deal with the aftermath when he comes back. And I tell myself he is coming back. The notion that Rex might have left his corporeal form permanently is promptly shredded and tossed out. He’s alive, he made it, and so did I. Sometimes happy endings are fucked up, but there you go.
So how to tell him? Or warn him, or give him some sort of comfort?
Hey, man, I know this isn’t the right time…
No, it’s the perfect time. He’s given up watching me it seems, curled in the corner with his arms cradling his head, rocking back and forth more obviously now. He’s a sad picture that wilts my sense of humiliation and guilt. My gender and clothing can’t be significant in this place.
And always, I suspect, it never mattered, I could have told him the very minute I woke up. He would have shrugged and changed the subject. Maybe even chuckled at Edith’s bad luck. But I didn’t do that because I wanted him to like me and touch me. I deserve his rea
ction if it’s terrible.
So I go to the corner and do my business, able to let go after I check twice that he isn’t watching. Nobody likes to be watched for this. Well, maybe some…
I’m tired. Random thoughts occur when I’m tired.
Glad that I didn’t wear pantyhose, I point out the cell and watch the yellow crawl to the drain. I purposely don’t think about blood. I finish, tuck myself in, let the skirt drop. Done and done. I’d love to wash my hands. Maybe if I ask nice, Edith will give me the dolphin soap from the counter. For now, there’s a little water left over in the glass. I splash my hands and wipe them on my skirt.
He hasn’t looked up, lost in his pain and agony.
I shouldn’t get involved. Shouldn’t take a step near him. Otherworldly beasts don’t belong in petting zoos.
But he’s shivering, rocking almost violently now, not making noise except for his heavy breathing. Where ever he’s gone in his mind, he’s hurting. And he’s cold. I wouldn’t think it possible with the heat he gave off when I was standing next to him.
I pick up Rex’s soft jacket, holding it to my chest and thinking. The beast may not be cold, but Rex could be. If Rex is still in there, he must feel the sensations of his body. He must feel lonely, too. Terrified, certainly.
A brave fool yearns to ease that suffering.
I deny my impulse at first, as a sane person should. In my corner, I sit and spread the jacket over me, covering myself as best I can, holding my knees up to my chest to make myself small. My pillow is my shoulder, my neck bent uncomfortably. I’ll hurt in the morning, but I won’t freeze.
He whimpers.
My eyelids open, I stare straight ahead.
He’s cold, I know it. And so many other terrible things. Panicked and crazy inside his head. Paralyzed, screaming silently. I used to have dreams like that, where my voice wouldn’t come no matter how hard I tried.
I can’t let him suffer like this.
The jacket is my net, the beast my quarry. My Mary Janes toe closer, closer, as my arms prop the jacket for throwing. I’ve no intention of touching him for this.
